Region Thirty Three
by the ramblin rose
Summary: Caryl AU. The government is working to round up the wilds that won't assimilate. In prison they'll be "tamed," one way or another. The sentence for a crime that includes all possible crimes under the title of "Wild" is, as far as any inmate is concerned, life imprisonment. At Region Thirty Three, though, there's a possibility to find a kind of life within that sentence.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: I wanted to do this for a while and I finally sat down to type it out. It was sparked by the list of prompts and the thought of "meeting in prison," but it took a turn all its own.**

 **I own nothing from the show.**

 **I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"Inmate 6245?"

Daryl stood up in his place, not that there was very much room for him to do anything else. He was, since terminology wasn't really set in stone these days, in something of a holding cell. That's what he considered it, at least.

The officer that had come for him was a Barney Fife character. He probably weighed, and Daryl was being generous, less than a well-grown thirteen year old boy weighed. He was tall and stringy and almost comical. If Daryl had an inclination to do anything, he could take this officer out before anyone else could stop him—bare handed.

But he didn't have an inclination to do any such thing. He might take Barney out, but there would be others that would get to him before he made any real progress toward freedom, and then the punishment would be long term enough that it would never be worth it just to know he'd taken out the human string bean.

They'd bind him again too, and Daryl most liked to avoid the bindings. He succumbed to them during routine procedures, but for the most part he'd earned a name as being docile. He was allowed to spend his days without the bindings. He could stretch his legs if he pleased—when he wasn't in holding cells or confined to some other small place for one reason or another—and he could do with his hands what he pleased as long as he didn't please putting them on an officer or another inmate in an act of violence.

As "Inmate 6245," or just 6245 when they didn't bother with the formalities, and tagged as "docile," Daryl enjoyed as much freedom as he probably ever would.

 _Freedom._

Sometimes Daryl thought that freedom was a concept that had been created by society to make people afraid of the opposite.

 _Capture. Incarceration. Confinement. Control. Prison._

At one time, every inmate had feared those things. Freedom, in itself, was a way of controlling people. Physically they were given, at least for the most part, free reign. They were given at least the illusion of self-governance. Really, though, they were being mentally controlled because their actions were always carefully policed to avoid the dreaded imprisonment.

It was keeping them under lock and key, just the same, except it required fewer people to don uniforms and keep vigilance over everyone else. People policed themselves. All in the name of freedom.

"6245?" Barney Fife asked. Daryl chewed his lip and glanced quickly around him. In the small space there were two other inmates, but neither of them flinched. One wore enough bruises to indicate that he was either a new arrival, still being tamed as such, or he was given to violence and it hadn't been beaten out of him yet. The other simply stared at the floor. There was no reason to believe, though, that either of them might have been 6245.

Daryl hummed and nodded, stifling his humor at the situation.

"6245," he repeated back. "Always been the same. Except—that one time when I was in Sesame Street Lock Up and they called me D-D-O-T. Like damn dot with a stutter."

Barney didn't look amused, but Daryl didn't really care. He wouldn't be punished for a bad sense of humor. That wasn't how it worked.

"You're being moved," Barney said, ignoring Daryl's joke entirely.

"Damn sure hope so," Daryl responded. "I'm ready to get outta this box."

Barney produced the handcuffs that Daryl dreaded. They were temporary, though, and always worn during transfers. Daryl produced his wrists and waited while the cuffs were secured. Barney yanked on the metal harder than he had to.

"Come with me," he said. Daryl nodded his compliance and started to follow the walking stringbean through the dingy halls that he'd come down earlier when he'd been notified he was up for transfer.

Transfer came around. Everyone got transferred, sooner or later. They were shuffled about so often, at least in the early days, that Daryl had lost track of where he was almost entirely. Eventually he'd stopped trying to even keep up with it. It didn't matter. The facilities, though all different, were essentially the same. What concern was it of his what the outside surroundings were like? He'd probably never see them anyway beyond the time he spent in transfer. He would die, like most everyone else that had been brought in, as 6245. When he died? They'd put a bullet through his head—assuming that wasn't the cause of his death—and they'd burn him with the rest of the unfortunates that happened to die that day.

Nobody would remember 6245 and, more than that, nobody would remember Daryl Dixon.

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Daryl tried to play the guessing game out of the bus window while he rode in silence after he woke from the sleep brought on by the rocking of the vehicle travelling down less than perfect roads. He tried to guess, every time he was transferred, where he might end up or even where he was. There was a theory, though he didn't know if it held any more truth than any other theory, that they were all being shuffled to somewhere that was like an inmate gathering place. Stop by stop. Facility by facility. They all got closer to this place. It was somewhere the government was designing for them. It was somewhere where they could be put out of sight and out of mind, no doubt.

Daryl didn't know if they were all going to the same place. He didn't know if the transfers had any sense to them or if he was moving along some kind of path, like a game piece following a board he couldn't see, or if they were all simply being shuffled because space ran out. Resources ran out. Some facilities were better equipped than others.

There was an end to the line. There always had been and there always would be. Daryl wasn't really sure, though, if how you arrived there mattered at all.

The landscape told him relatively nothing about where he might be. Mountains in the distance, at this point, could be any set of mountains. Towns were protected by high walls, mostly topped with barbed wire, and weren't visible to anyone travelling the so-called highways any longer. The walls, these days, were almost entirely unnecessary. They served, now, to keep out the wild ones that hadn't assimilated and hadn't been captured. Once, though, they'd served to keep out the dead when they took to walking about. Now, though? The only time anyone ever saw one of those wandering loose in the wild was, Daryl imagined, if some uncaptured wild-one happened to die and take to ambling about.

One dead man walking was hardly a threat to those that remembered life in the thick of it. One wasn't a threat at all for those who remembered what it was like when this whole thing started.

Daryl remembered it.

He saw the place they were headed at least twenty minutes before they got there. For the mountains in the distance, the land around him was fairly flat. The scorched landscape had either always been desert or, at any rate, it was now. It allowed for pretty decent visibility.

All the better to shoot the wild-ones down, should they escape.

Knowing better than to speak on the bus, Daryl waited until they'd stopped. The doors were opened and they were being waited for by officers that were expecting them. It had been a ride that had taken two full nights to make. They'd gone a decent distance—even if the new fuel didn't move things as fast as they might have once moved across the country.

When everyone filed out, Daryl stopped a moment and leaned toward the driver.

"You know where we are?" He asked.

The old man with tired, bloodshot eyes, looked at him.

"Do it matter?" He asked.

Daryl didn't bother responding. The man was right, really. It didn't matter. Still, Daryl had a curiosity and it wasn't likely to fade without some kind of answer. He followed the other inmates destined for a new home out of the side of the bus and looked around him, squinting at the brightness of the sun. After a moment, he felt the officer he hadn't looked at yet when he put a hand on his shoulder.

"Move it along, inmate," the man said, pushing Daryl slightly in the direction that all the others were going.

"Can you tell me?" Daryl asked quickly. "Where the hell are we?"

"Region Thirty Three," the officer replied.

Daryl took it as the only answer he'd ever get. The name of the facility. But, at least, now he knew the place he'd call home until the next time they pulled him for transfer.

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

If there was such a thing as a final destination on the prison circuit, Daryl hoped it might be Region Thirty Three. He'd spent the first while there in a holding cell, alone, but it had been temporary. He'd waited patiently, despite a small bit of claustrophobia at the fact that the room, barely bigger than a broom closet, had no windows, and eventually they'd come for him.

Yes. He was inmate 6245. Formerly D-D-O-T. Formerly 6245. Formerly "Wild Tagged 43." Formerly...Daryl Dixon. Except they didn't say that part. They never did. Who had been, before he'd become wild, didn't matter. As one of the wilds, after all, he probably had no ability to even realize that he'd been anything before.

They didn't know them. Not any of them. But it didn't matter.

His identity established, and his file read, he was being moved to a "bunk" for "dociles". He was given a rucksack that held what were, now, all his belongings, and he was taken to something that reminded him of everything he'd ever thought that dorms at summer camp or college might be like—even if he'd never been to either of those places.

Region Thirty Three was large and it was divided for the "docile" and the "untamed". Daryl assumed, though he didn't ask, that there were probably other spaces of the facility that he didn't want to know about. He knew how to keep his head down. He didn't want to find out about the inner workings of every facility that he passed through. The first had been enough.

When he reached his "bunk," he was surprised to find that all the dociles had a relatively large amount of the captive freedom that they were allowed. Rather than being put, two by two like animals on the Ark, into cells, they shared something of a "common room" with each inmate having a cot to themselves and a small cabinet for their belongings.

He had been given ten minutes to "get comfortable" in his space—had failed to meet even one of his new "bunkmates" and then had been shuffled out, now unbound, to what he was told would be his supper and evening recess.

Entering into mess hall, where the smell of the food was already better than anything he'd eaten while he was wild and had his so-called freedom, Daryl saw the thing that made him most excited about Region Thirty Three.

Region Thirty Three, it seemed, was coed.

Daryl hadn't seen a woman in—it didn't even matter. He was seeing plenty of them now. More than he felt like he'd seen in his life, but then things always looked better when you hadn't seen them in a while.

One short hands-off and common space speech later and Daryl was free to roam among the other inmates. He didn't mind, much, the rules of being "hands-off" because he'd never really been "hands-on". A look but don't touch philosophy was perfect for someone like him.

He soon realized how perfect.

Daryl sat alone, at one of the fold out tables in the mess hall, and ate the food that he'd been given. He looked around him, taking in every sight available to him, but he spoke to no one. Ever since the first place he'd always had a hard time getting to know anybody. In fact, it was nothing new. He'd never been that great at just walking up and introducing himself to someone. He had no real trouble, once the ice was broken and the introductions were out of the way, maintaining something of a civil relationship with others—but he just wasn't that great at being the one to approach.

Now maybe, having been wild and all, it was even more difficult.

So, feeling unable to talk to anyone else, Daryl sat and ate with his head down most of the time. He lifted it only long enough to look around, take in a few more sights, and then he lowered it when he was dizzy with the overwhelming feeling of being surrounded by too many new people at once. His meal done, he passed in his tray and followed some of the other inmates out to the common area for "recess".

Longingly, he watched as some of the inmates—ones who had been there long enough to establish some kind of mercantile connection—smoked cigarettes that the officers lit for them. Others walked around and chatted among themselves.

But Daryl held up a wall and watched. It was what he was best at doing.

He'd just begun to move from a feeling of contentment over Region Thirty Three to an all too familiar bitterness when he was startled half out of his skin.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to scare you. I just—well—you're new here?"

Daryl looked at the woman. She was fully expecting an answer. She was pretty. Her hair was short cropped—by choice or by some other circumstance, he wasn't sure—and silver, but she didn't look old enough that he would've pegged her for "some old lady". Actually, he wouldn't have pegged her even for being as old as he was pretty sure that he was—if anyone was keeping count these days of the years.

She continued to stare, crossing her arms across her chest and shifting her weight with some impatience. Daryl realized that he'd failed to respond to her. It had been a long time since he'd been this close to a woman.

"Yeah," he said, surprised at how hoarse his own voice sounded to his ears.

"I was too, once," the woman said. She looked around like she was checking for an officer. They were allowed to talk, though, so more than likely she was either looking for someone else or was simply breaking the awkwardness between them that was probably born from Daryl's newfound inability not to stare at her. She brought her eyes back to him and gave him a quick once over. He didn't miss the head to toe "check". "You ate alone," she said. "If you don't like that? Breakfast? Look for me. You can eat with us."

"Us?" Daryl asked.

She raised her eyebrows at him.

"I have friends," she said. "I'm not—alone here. Not anymore."

Daryl started to stammer, seeking an excuse not to eat with her. It came from habit, maybe, that he'd buried deep down. He really had no reason not to eat with her. Honestly? He would like it. But the habit was there—maybe it was worse now because he'd once been wild.

But then, so had she or she wouldn't be here.

"You don't have to," she said quickly. She shrugged. "I just offered."

She turned, finding that the end of the conversation, and started to walk off. Daryl barked out a "Hey" at her. It was all that he could say. He didn't know her name and he didn't know her number. She stopped, stood still with her back to him for a moment, and then she swung around and came back to him. She tipped her head slightly to the side and returned her arms back to their position, hugging herself.

"Yeah," Daryl said. "Thanks. But—who are you?"

The woman made a humming noise.

"8294F," she said.

Daryl furrowed his brows at her.

"No," he said. "What's your name? The one you had—before you was wild?"

She looked around.

"Carol," she said.

Daryl chuckled to himself and quickly tried to correct himself when she looked a little miffed by his finding humor at his name. He shook his head.

"Funny 'cause it rhymes," he said. "I'm Daryl."

She nodded her head, the only response she gave, and then she offered him only a slight hint of a smile.

"Fine," she said. "Daryl. If you want to eat with us, just look for me."

"Yeah," Daryl said again, wishing he could find better words to string together and pass as conversation. "Yeah," he repeated, unable to stop himself. "Thanks..." he finally choked out.

"I was new once too," Carol said, offering him the small hint of a smile once more. "We all were," she added, before she turned and walked quickly away toward a large bunch of women that were being herded, Daryl assumed, toward their bunks.

He stood up from the wall, smiled to himself, and searched out his own officer in hopes that he might get a shower before he turned in tonight. He was already feeling pretty good about time to be served at Region Thirty Three.

Breakfast, it seemed, might really be the most important meal of the day.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: I didn't mean to do it, but I did. Oh well. Here goes nothing.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Carol stood in line, directly behind one inmate while another was directly behind her, to wait to be herded into the showers. A handful at a time, they were herded in, given a few minutes to bathe—five if the person was feeling generous, and they were herded out. Stripped entirely naked, like everyone else, she didn't even bother to cover herself any longer.

When she'd been "captured," as they liked to call it, she'd lost the last bit of modesty that she had. Ironically, when she was out there? She might have had a little less modesty than her life in the old world had seen her with, but she had far more than she had in here. None of them had anything like privacy now. Their deepest, darkest, and, sometimes, most disgusting secrets were always on display for everyone else.

"Let's get it moving, bitches!" Officer Mills' voice boomed out from just beyond Carol's line of sight where the line curved slightly to go into the bathroom door.

Mills wouldn't allow them five minutes. If they were lucky, they'd get three. He was one of the officers that seemed to truly believe that they weren't human and that, or at least that they weren't human any longer.

Three or four people ahead of her, Carol heard the two quick yips and the longer, echoing howl issued by Andrea. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing at it, but the sound of a few giggles echoed through some of the other women.

"LC456F, you've got two flags," Mills warned.

"Please sir, may I have some more?" Andrea's voice responded back, the sound of her laughter following after it. She wouldn't get flagged for the joke, but she needed to be careful. Mills was known for flagging people on bogus offences, so giving him real ammunition to work with was dangerous, especially if the cards were already not in your favor.

The line finally chugged forward. The last group that had been in the showers was being taken out the other door. Just like a traffic jam at a red light, as soon as the light turned green they went from full stop to full motion. Carol followed the line into the bathroom and stood just outside the shower stall that would be hers. Mills walked down the line and each woman, as she was required to do, held her hands out to the side and did a full turn before he excused her to enter the shower and turn on the spray of water.

Soap was always in there and that's all there was. A prisoner for not knowing how to live and Carol knew that there were more luxuries to be had at bath time. Of the belongings on her at the time of her capture, Carol had even had at least one razor, a cake of soap, a bottle of shampoo, and a washrag.

Now? She had none of those, but she had the government to thank for taking her out of her savage existence and returning her, since she wasn't fit for society, at least to something resembling a domesticated life.

Mills barked the command that showers were over before Carol had fully finished rinsing off the soap residue. She dropped the bar back in the basket for the next person and quickly splashed water on the parts of her body that she knew by now would protest the left behind reside and then she emerged with the others to stand by the shower door and wait as Mills handed out the towels that were barely larger than the washcloths they weren't allowed and scratched like scrubbing pads.

It was just for drying. It offered no coverage. Carol scrubbed herself dry, just as everyone else did, and then she awaited the command to fall in line. She heard Mills bellow out an order to the women that would follow them and she walked in line out the back exit of the bathroom and down the corridor that would return them safely to their bunks for the night.

When they were in their space, Carol put on the dingy cotton shirt that she called her night-shirt and didn't bother with anything else. She got into her bed and tucked an arm under her pillow. They would have only ten or fifteen minutes until lights were out for the night. It would be just enough time to return everyone to their bunks. They were free to stay up as long as they wanted, of course, but they'd have to do it in the darkness. Nobody told them when to sleep, only when they were no longer allowed the light.

"I have to piss," someone said. Carol couldn't readily identify who because their words barely came out louder than a whisper.

"You'll have to wait now," someone else responded. Jade maybe. It was hard to say. "Learn to piss in the shower, like everybody else."

"Go after lights out," Carol said, louder than either of the two women that were speaking. "They won't care. You'll get flagged if you go to sleep and wet the bed."

Nobody responded to her. It was fine. She didn't need a response. Whoever it was, though, would do just what she suggested. They'd wait until lights out and then they'd stumble through the darkness, up the corridor, and they'd find the bathroom. It was probably Jade. She was newer to Region Thirty Three. She hadn't learned the ropes yet. Every new facility was different and every one had their own way of doing things. She'd learn it soon enough.

For animals, they all learned fairly quickly. If they didn't? They suffered the consequences.

He was new too. Daryl. That's what he'd said his name was.

Carol wasn't entirely sure, out of the dozen new inmates that came in, why she'd asked him to eat with her. Maybe it was because she felt sorry for him, sitting and eating alone. Maybe it was because she remembered what it had been like when she'd first come into captivity and she remembered each transfer after that.

She didn't like the idea of anyone being alone. Animals or not, they were social animals. They needed each other to live. Animals or not, they had feelings.

Carol had asked him to eat with her and her friends because she didn't think anyone should have to be alone. Not if they didn't want to be.

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

The cots at Region Thirty Three were at least ten times more comfortable than the ones at Mobile Park where Daryl had been last. It hadn't really been called Mobile Park, of course, but that's what all the inmates called it because whenever they got in new people they had to do their early time in the mobile units that were oddly packed into the property to make more room for "storage" of warm bodies. The units were hot all the time. In theory that would be desirable in the winter, but in practice it wasn't. The heat in the units was just too damn hot. It came from too many bodies being trapped inside an oversized tin can that lacked ventilation. The things smelled like shit, too, and once one man started hurling his guts out it was a bad damn night for everyone else.

Region Thirty Three, though? It was nice. The mattress on Daryl's cot was every bit as comfortable as he remembered any bed being that he'd been left to call his own. The springs on the thing didn't squeak at all when he rolled.

That was a good thing, too. Everyone knew that a half-docile wild, squeaking their way through the system, would kill you for less than disturbing their sleep—and that was just with the weapons that God had given them. Most of them, after all, had teeth and their claws, if not chewed down regularly enough, were longer than many would find desirable.

Of course, everyone knew there was no such thing as a real docile, either. That's why they had to be watched—make sure that they didn't go wild again. Really it was just to make sure that they kept, tight under lock and key, the part of themselves that was there and that had, if they were honest, always been there.

It seemed that everybody in his bunk was a long time resident of the place. He didn't know where those who had gotten off the bus with him had gone, but they hadn't come with him. Of course, there were probably a number of bunks—it just turned out that this one was his.

It also seemed that nobody here was too quick to introduce themselves. They had, from what Daryl could tell, their own little social groups. It was a whole different ballgame than Mobile Park or even Sesame Street where, as soon as they'd been sorted, they were put in two by two cells. Your cellmate was, if not your friend, the only connection you had to anyone who might even admit having had the same kind of life that you had once had—whether it was when you were wild or before that.

Here? People seemed to have a lot more _people_. People seemed to know each other's names.

While he was waiting for the lights to go out, Daryl sat on his bunk and watched the others who were doing whatever they wanted to do for their last little bit of time with electricity. There were a couple of books. There was a game of what appeared to be poker taking place.

"Hey—where you coming from?"

Daryl jumped because he'd been looking in the opposite direction of the man that approached him. This was the kind of place where you had to watch your back and your front at all times. It wasn't just a case of trouble possibly breaking out in common areas. Now every area was a common area.

Still, the black man standing near him didn't seem to be seeking trouble. He looked genuinely curious. He was breaking the ice for Daryl.

Daryl cleared his throat.

"Mobile Park," Daryl said.

The man hummed and nodded his head, smiling like someone who just recognized the name of their home town.

"You come from there?" Daryl asked.

The man invited himself to sit on Daryl's bunk.

"No, man," he said. "Just—we get a lot from there. Come in bunches. Ten at the least."

"Think I counted fourteen yesterday," Daryl said.

The man smiled.

"Then I'd say you can count pretty high," he said. Daryl could tell, immediately, from his tone of voice, that the man was teasing him.

"What's your name?" Daryl asked.

"Mobile Park they deal in numbers or names?" The man asked.

"Numbers," Daryl said. "But—I don't like calling nobody by no damn number. You had a mama once. Come from somewhere. She give you a name. If it's all the same to you, I'd rather know what she give you than what they did."

"Theodore," the man said. "But—my mama was just about the only one who called me that. She's dead, so nobody calls me that now. It's T-Dog to everybody else."

"Daryl," Daryl offered. "You got people? Out there? In here?"

T-Dog furrowed his brow at Daryl.

"You mean family?" T-Dog asked.

Daryl shrugged.

"Or—a wife? Friends? Hell...I don't know. I was just trying to make conversation. I'm outta shit to talk about already," Daryl said.

T-Dog laughed at that.

"I'm sure you got more than enough to say," T-Dog said. "But your first night isn't the night for it. I had a—Jacqui out there."

"She die wild or get captured?" Daryl asked.

T-Dog hummed, but apparently the conversation was enough to make him uncomfortable because he stood up and abandoned his position on Daryl's bed.

"It's all about the same," T-Dog said. "Get ready for bed. Once the lights go out, you might get flagged if some asshole's watching the halls."

"Flagged?" Daryl asked.

But T-Dog was already walking away, back toward whichever bed he'd come from.

"Flagged," he called back. "All you need to know is you don't want to be flagged. It's like—a strike."

Daryl understood strikes. He understood strikes and stripes and tags and everything else he'd heard at the places he'd been. And now, he understood, his reality here was keeping his head down and hoping to avoid the flags.

He got into bed right away, not really needing anything else for the night anyway. He liked the routine of the prisons and he enjoyed, honestly, being told what time to go to bed because he'd always done a shitty job of figuring it out for himself before all this. At most of these places? He was in bed early enough to feel pretty good when they woke them, and tomorrow he had reason to believe he might want to be in the best kind of mood that any wild-turned-docile could muster.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Another chapter here.**

 **There's a somewhat detailed AN at the end that you might want to read if you're wondering some things to expect from this story or if you're concerned. If you don't want to read, by all means don't, but I'm putting it out there for anyone who might appreciate it.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Morning came with a new adjustment to make. Daryl was accustomed to the wakeup call being made with a whistle or a blast of noise from something like an air horn. At Region Thirty Three he was awakened by the shouting of a loud guard that informedthem, as he passed around the large bunk space, that it was time to rise and shine and inmates had ten minutes to dress and make their beds before bathroom time. Daryl learned that bathroom time was when they were allowed to piss, if they so desired, and brush whatever teeth they had. The latter of the two activities was supervised and not at all optional.

Civilized people always brushed their teeth. Dociles, even if they didn't know well enough to know that they really benefitted from the activity, were expected to comply without complaint.

When his toothbrush was returned to his cabinet, Daryl followed the others out of the building they resided in and stopped his steps only a moment when he found the morning sun to be a good deal brighter than the light the bulbs gave off. From another part of the building that he was leaving, he could see that there was another officer leading a line of women. He searched, in vain, for Carol. He couldn't find her, though, or else he was simply unable to identify her in a crowd.

Region Thirty Three, though, was a large facility. She could very well be housed in a different building entirely.

The trip to the mess hall wasn't very long and Daryl was somewhat pleased to learn that, as dociles, they got a recess following breakfast that, at least as far as he understood, could last as long as they could manage to behave themselves. In some of the places their outdoor activities and interactions was very limited, so having a good deal more time to do those things was welcomed in his mind.

Daryl had always been something of an "outdoorsy" person. One of the worst things about his captivity was being forced to spend a lot less time simply breathing in fresh air.

For a large facility, everything seemed to run like clockwork at the place. Daryl was starting to think that perhaps the rumors were true and they were sort of working their way up some kind of ladder and, at the end of it, they'd be in some kind of special government facility that was created to bring all docile inmates together. The government, after all, had to have a stronger interest in a location like this than it had in the previous places that he'd been. Everything here was, on the whole, simply in better shape.

Of course, it may have simply been that he was now in a location where more was to be had and, therefore, more could be "wasted" on the comfort of veritable half-humans.

The kitchen staff of the mess hall, just like the night before, worked like a well-oiled machine. Two lines of food were going out from the kitchen and two lines of inmates filed in at a time from either side of the building. As each person passed, their tray was ready and handed to them and they filed down the center line between the groups of tables with everything moving smoothly.

If Daryl hadn't had to get his tray and follow in line behind all of them, it really might have been a fascinating thing to observe for at least a little while.

As soon as he got his tray, Daryl started looking for Carol. There were already women there, but he didn't know how many groups of inmates there were and if she was ahead or behind him in arriving at the hall. Twice he thought he saw her and only realized, nearing the table, that it wasn't her. It was someone with a similar haircut, maybe, but it wasn't her.

The second time that he mistook someone for her, he backed his way out of the tight space he'd gotten himself into and then started to rejoin the others searching out their spots in the center aisle. This caused a disruption, nearly cost someone their tray, and left Daryl stammering out an apology while he heard an officer nearby warning about flags.

Flustered, Daryl was ready to abandon the search for Carol altogether. He waded through the few people who were spitting words at him about the incident and headed for three tables that were entirely without inmates. Before he could put his tray on the table, though, another of the officers yelled at him and informed him that those tables were "occupied".

Daryl turned, accepting that he was being denied the chance to even eat with the apparently invisible inmates, and turned his eyes back to searching out what might be a comfortable place among the group.

She appeared to him again, just like the evening before, as though she'd materialized out of nothing. She might have touched him, to get his attention, but she didn't. Instead, from just behind him, her voice came.

"We're over here," she said. "I saved you a seat."

Daryl smiled when he saw her. Partly it was because he was happy to see her. Partly it was because he was happy to know that he had somewhere to sit and consume the food that wouldn't be any good if it were to get cold. And partly? Well, partly it was because the statement struck him as something better fitting to teenagers or kids than to dociles in the mess hall of Region Thirty Three.

Daryl hummed out the best acceptance that he could at the moment, but Carol probably hadn't heard it. She was already working her way through the crowd and toward the table that Daryl would be joining her at with her friends. He followed her, hoped for the best, and tried to keep from running into anyone else and pissing off the officer that already seemed keen to introduce him to the way that flags worked around here.

When he reached the table, Carol sat down where she'd abandoned her tray. The table she'd chosen was near a wall and the officer that was overlooking it was a young man—the kind who had very likely been born sometime just before the dead had started to roam about and who probably had little to no recollection of what a life without dead men walking and wild ones locked away even looked like. The young officer, though, looked less jaded with his existence than some of the others. Maybe it was owing to his age. Maybe that was why they chose this table.

Or maybe it was just coincidence.

Sitting at the table was a blonde, a woman with dull red hair that had likely faded with her age and the fact that it was heavily streaked with grey, Carol, and a black woman with short cropped hair. The black woman was the only one of them who sat straight backed against the back of her chair without slumping slightly forward like the rest of them.

Without introduction, Daryl took the open seat that he assumed belonged to him. Once he'd settled, Carol took it upon herself to start up the introductions.

"Daryl this is Dori," Carol said, gesturing toward the redhead to her side.

The woman smiled at Daryl, a genuine smile instead of one of the fake ones that usually came with meeting someone new, and she gestured awkwardly with her hand in something that resembled a wave.

"Hi," she said, but she offered nothing else. What else was there to say, though? Small talk wasn't easy to come by and breakfast wasn't the place to talk about the deeper subjects.

"And that's Lisette," Carol said, gesturing toward the black woman.

"How'd you do?" The woman asked, her speech coming out with an accent that Daryl couldn't immediately place, though it was musical and nice to hear.

"And this..." Carol started, but she was interrupted.

"Is LC456F," the blonde said. "Formerly Andrea Harrison—when I was allowed to have a name."

Daryl immediately realized the blonde was not in good spirits this morning, though of course he'd have no reason of knowing if there was a cause behind her bitterness or if she was simply always like this. These days, it could go either way.

"That's a helluva mouthful," Daryl commented. "Your number. Not your name," he added quickly, not wanting to provoke her to have a worse day than she was already having.

She nodded her head. Across her lips there appeared a hint of a smile.

"It is," she said, but she offered nothing more than that.

"They give you a whole license plate where you were captured," Daryl said. "Standard there?"

The blonde didn't look perturbed by his question, exactly, but he wasn't sure how much longer he should press her for information. She held his eyes for a moment and then she dropped hers back to her food.

"From when I was captured," she said, but like before, she didn't offer him anything more in the way of explanation.

Deciding that he might have used up his quota of questions for one meal, and not wanting to be cast out from the table when he'd only just found a place to sit, Daryl decided to stop his line of questioning.

Daryl...Dixon," He offered, looking at all of the women in a sweeping motion as he said it. In return he got a few nods and some noises that were akin to humming. They had his name, but there wasn't much to say about it.

He didn't know what to say after that, though, so he fell into silence. It seemed like it didn't bother any of them because they were relatively quiet too and focusing on their food. Daryl glanced around the space at the masses of inmates. There was room for them, but there seemed to be more now than there'd been the night before—maybe they ate in shifts.

He looked back toward the three empty tables that he'd been turned away from. Slowly they were filling up as another line of inmates were being brought in. All of them were bound, though their hobbles and everything else appeared to be somewhat loose, and all of them were keeping their heads down.

Daryl looked at Carol because she seemed the easiest for him to talk to.

"Them people—wilds?" Daryl asked.

Carol followed his glance. He realized that, maybe because of his question, everyone at the table was looking toward them now.

"Being punished," Carol responded quietly. "They flagged out."

Daryl hummed.

"Flagged out?" He asked.

Carol looked a little uncomfortable. She made a humming noise, like she was carefully considering what she might say, and then she spoke to him again.

"You get three flags," Carol said. "Whatever you've done—it doesn't matter. If you get three flags? You go back through taming."

Daryl shivered.

Even when you got strikes or stripes or anything else at the places he'd been, three of them only landed you in solitary for a little while so that you could think about what you'd done wrong. Sometimes, and only in worse case scenarios, it might land you having to talk to an officer who talked down to you and attempted to explain to you, like you were barely capable of thought at all, why you were being punished.

You only went back through the taming process for serious offences—murder, sexual assault, extreme violence. You didn't go back, once you were docile, for something like minor offences.

"That officer was gonna flag my ass for bumping into somebody on accident," Daryl said, careful to keep his voice only just above absolute silence.

Carol frowned and nodded at him.

"That's Mills," she said. "Be careful. Some of the officers are fond of handing out flags. They'll flag you for just about anything."

"You go through taming on some damn trumped up charges?" Daryl asked. "That ain't right."

Carol looked uncomfortable with the conversation. She immediately broke the contact between them visually by dropping her eyes.

"None of this is right," Andrea said, clearly not as put off at the moment. "You can't treat people like this."

"We're not people," Carol said quietly. "Not anymore. Not to them."

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

 **AN: A few quick things about this story. The subject matter is, as I'm sure you can tell, touchy and going to be handled as delicately as possible. It's going to be dark in some places. I'll try to lighten it up in the places I can too.**

 **This will be a Caryl story (as in "couple") but for pretty obvious reasons it's going to be slow burn. I ask you to have patience.**

 **Characters will be a little different here than we've seen them in other places, but it's a whole different world. I hope that, as we go along, anything that's "different" about them will make sense to you.**

 **I'm sure you can guess the types of things that you might expect to see. Unless they're extremely graphic, I won't be offering warnings for discussions about violence or for violence. Those things can be expected here in certain situations. I don't write rape. I may sometimes allude to it or have someone speak about it in some way (if the situation calls for it, I don't do gratuitious rape), but I don't write detailed depictions of it. That being said, if anyone is speaking about it in any great detail (which I don't plan, but I'm putting it out there just in case) then there will be a warning.**

 **Other characters play major roles in my stories (besides just Carol and Daryl), so you can expect to see other character interactions in the story. I'm putting that out there in case this is the first of my stories that you've read before.**

 **I think, for now, that should cover everything that I need to say. If you have any questions or concerns, though, please let me know. You can leave them in reviews (which I hope you'll leave even if you don't have questions or concerns) or message me if they're of a more private nature.**

 **I hope you're enjoying so far!**


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **Thank you for your comments. I'm glad to see that some of you are enjoying this. It's a little new to me as I've never quite written anything like this story. I'm looking forward to it, though. I think it could be interesting.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Once the meal was passed in a somewhat awkward manner—small talk had always been difficult for Daryl, but it seemed especially difficult now—and trays had been put away, they were all free to roam the yard if they wanted. Outside, and in an early recess, Daryl discovered that there were certain activities they could partake in. There were boxes of books brought out, apparently where some of his bunkmates had acquired the copies they were reading the night before, and Carol informed him that they were free for the taking but it was always appreciated if they were returned since there might not be more coming into the prison. There were also some boxes brought out that contained simple things: decks of cards, puzzles, a few assorted balls.

Everything there was something that might be used to entertain kids. It was something that might be used to keep them quiet and occupied. There was nothing that could be used as a weapon, of course, unless someone were to get very, very creative with their time.

"We didn't have this kinda thing at my old place," Daryl said, once he was walking around with Carol and had left behind, at least for the moment, the other women from the table. "All these extra things? We didn't have nothing like that."

There are classes too," Carol said. "Supervised. Existence enrichment classes. That's what they call them. You can play with clay. Paint with non-toxic paint. Same kind of thing. Calm the animal within."

Daryl snickered at her tone of voice. She looked at him, at first with a warning look on her face, and then it softened into a smile. She didn't let it linger too long, though.

"You been here a long time?" Daryl asked.

Carol hummed.

"Only been transferred twice," she said. "My first place was my capture facility."

Daryl hummed. That was typical. Every facility was set up to take in new captures, but not every facility was really ready to handle a large load of wilds. How long you stayed at a place depended, from what Daryl could figure, on how big the place was, what it had to offer, and exactly how hard one was to tame.

"You went through taming there?" Daryl asked.

Carol hummed.

"Moved right after," she said. "Second place? Went through taming again."

She looked at him, searching his face for either approval or disapproval. He didn't have any judgment on anyone's taming, so he worked to keep his expression as neutral as possible. Carol gave him something that was barely a nod, sucked in a breath, and continued to speak even as she continued her steps.

"Came here right after," Carol said.

"You go through taming again?" Daryl asked.

He had to look at her to get a response then. She didn't offer a verbal one, just a nod as she continued to walk, head down to look toward the ground like she had to be particularly careful of where she placed her feet. She looked back at him, then, when he didn't say anything to her. Maybe she was checking to see if he'd seen her gesture.

"Twice," she said. "Once—just because, I guess. Once because I flagged out."

Daryl swallowed.

"What'd you flag out for?" He asked.

Her expression changed and she dropped her eyes again.

"Couple of things," she said, not looking at him. "Most of it was because I—most of it was improper conduct."

Daryl didn't press. He recognized, at the moment, that she wasn't going to like being pushed any farther. Like the blonde at the table, Andrea, who had been having a bad day and didn't appreciate questions, Carol didn't seem to want to be pressed.

And Daryl didn't want to lose the first friendly contact he could really remember enjoying in a long time for being too damn nosy.

So he decided to offer her some of his own story.

"I been through—hell, I don't remember. Probably eight places? Been through taming twice. Once was, well, when I got captured. The second time was some bogus shit because a guard had it out for me."

"It's always bogus," Carol said. She looked around, satisfied herself that they weren't being too closely observed at the moment, and then continued to speak. "This whole damn thing is bogus."

Daryl swallowed.

One of the things that got beat into them and got beat into them early was that this? All of this? It was for their own good. It was to help them, never to hurt them. Even if they didn't see it because they were too wild to understand it, it was for them. The number one rule, really, was that they didn't criticize. Different places had different rules, but openly criticizing the government and their choices was one of the things could land you with a strike or stripe or—if Daryl had to guess—a flag quicker than anything else.

It showed that you weren't as docile as you pretended to be. It showed that you didn't have control of everything and you didn't understand the way that society worked. It showed that there was a solid streak in you that was still wild.

It proved that this was the place for you to be. You didn't belong anywhere else. Nowhere out there—wild or civilized—was the right kind of place for you. You were right where you needed to be.

And maybe, just maybe, you needed a little more taming and a shorter leash.

"I don't know about you," Daryl said, "but what I got in here ain't really that bad next to some of what I seen out there."

"We all saw things," Carol said. "And—there were times I didn't have a place to sleep or food to eat, but I had things out there that I don't have here."

Daryl swallowed.

"You'd rather be out there? Wild?" Daryl asked.

"You'd rather be in here?" Carol asked, cutting her eyes around again to monitor their location in comparison to the guards that were paying closer attention to the inmates that looked like they might cause trouble—or that were actively engaged in something where trouble might accidentally erupt.

"Sometimes?" Daryl responded. He hummed when he had Carol's attention and her eyes were on him. "Mmm...sometimes I think they right. Think—some of us? We went too far. Was too far gone. Had to come back, but couldn't do it on our own."

He thought about it a moment, recalling for himself some of the memories that he mostly tried to tuck down as deep as they'd go—as far down inside of him as he could possibly pack them.

"I done things," he said. He shook his head almost to deny himself even the chance of remembering them. "Things—I couldn'ta come back from."

"But you did," Carol said. "You're here. You're not wild."

"Maybe I am," Daryl said.

"We all did things," Carol said. "Even they did. You didn't make it. You didn't—survive—if you didn't do things."

A sharp, shrill whistle sounded through the air and Daryl turned instinctively toward the sound of the noise. Something had broken out in the yard. It looked to be nothing more than a tussle between three or so men, but the officers were on it and treating it like a riot while one of them walked around and blew the shrill little whistle repeatedly.

Daryl froze his steps and looked at Carol. She, too, had stopped walking and was watching the whole thing with some curiosity. Around the outside of where the officer was walking a large circle, sounding his whistle repeatedly as he did so, inmates were gathering around to watch.

"Should we do something?" Daryl asked.

"Stay still," Carol said. "Until they break it up? Stay still. Otherwise? You might get flagged for trying to start something. You could get flagged for getting involved."

Due to his earlier brush with the officer that wanted to flag him for an honest mistake, Daryl believed Carol entirely. He was sure that even a half step in any direction, especially were it seen by the right person, could land someone in taming. He stayed next to her, watching the dramatics.

It wasn't long before the four men were out of whatever fight there had been, bound, and being escorted out of the yard. The whistle man continued to blow his whistle and slowly everyone started to close in on him a little more. Carol started walking in that direction, but Daryl didn't move until Carol stopped and turned to look back at him.

"You better come on," she said. "Recess is over now. Thanks to them? We'll be inside for the rest of the day. Grab a book as you go by if you can."

Daryl doubled his steps to catch up with her. She was walking with determination, shoulders forward. She wasn't slouching or slumping, she was leaning into her steps. She was speeding them up.

She was angry and annoyed at a recess cut short. It was still more of a recess than he was accustomed to having.

Still, for a moment, Daryl wondered if she might feel—like he did—that it was disappointing that their time to chat had been cut short. He quickly told himself, though, that it wasn't the case. She had friends here. She was established. She knew the law of the land and she had her own people. She was being nice to him, and she was giving him an "in" into her circle, but she didn't have the same kinds of feelings he did that came from having spent so much time practically isolated from friendly human interaction.

It had been long enough that even Daryl, though he'd once thought of himself as someone who didn't need people and really preferred not to be around them—almost cherishing his isolated incarceration at times—was starting to realize how much he was craving interaction.

They hadn't allowed it much at the other places he'd been. They'd said it provoked "pack mentality," though they'd never given a clear definition of what they meant by that. They'd said it was _dangerous_. They'd suggested it was dangerous to the inmates. Keeping them apart was protecting them. It was caring for them and looking out for their well-being. The government was an ever present parent watching out for all of them. Maybe it was because they thought the so-called socialization, or pack mentality, would lead to scuffles—because it often did—but Daryl wondered if there may be more to it.

Isolated, they were all easier to control. Isolated, it was easier to believe what you heard. It was easier to believe that if you questioned anything that was told to you by those in power, it was because you were still clinging to your old ways and you were misled by a damaged way of thinking.

They were all misled because of the changes that had happened to them when they'd gone wild. It wasn't their fault, of course, but they couldn't undo the damage on their own.

Alone they could believe that easier. Alone, it all started to make sense.

But together?

Even as Daryl found his line, watched somewhat mournfully as Carol found hers and fell in with the very same women that Daryl had shared breakfast with, he remembered what she'd said. When she was wild? Life hadn't been great. If it was at all like Daryl's experiences? It certainly hadn't been easy. But she'd had something out there that she didn't have here.

Was it freedom?

Could something that was nothing more than some kind of construction built on fear be something she missed so much? Or was it something deeper than that?

Daryl remembered the blonde, bitter and angry about something, chewing through her food with all the charm of the starved half-animal they believed her to be. She believed they should be treated as whole-humans, despite her table manners. She believed they should have rights—if rights weren't just as much a construction as the freedom.

Together—their thoughts and feelings were validated. Together? Their thoughts and feelings _existed_. They had them. They recognized them in themselves and in each other. Right or wrong—a point which might be truly up for debate—they had opinions on things.

Opinions and thoughts? Especially those driven by feelings?

Maybe they'd been right. Maybe they _were_ dangerous.

But dangerous how? To whom?

Daryl jumped a little, his thoughts interrupted by the another shrill blast from a whistle, this time close to his ear as the officer passed near him. He fell in line with the others, when they started to move slowly forward, and focused his attention, at least for the time being, on not stepping on the heels of the man in front of him. After all, he didn't want to start another scuffle—and he certainly didn't want to risk being sent to taming for an accidental stumble.


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: Here we go, another chapter.**

 **Just to let you know, there will be OCs that appear in this story. This is a chapter where we'll meet one of those OCs and it will also start to give you some idea of the background of this story. I will also be tweaking character ages (particularly at the time of the outbreak) and some of their back stories for purposes to fit the story and the timeline that has to be established.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"Just got the call in. Fifteen new transfers in a week," Randall Oliver said.

Samirah Lafram sighed and waved her hand at him to dismiss him from her office as quickly as he'd entered the space. She didn't even bother parting her lips from the rim of her coffee cup. The transfers had been coming in non-stop since she'd taken over this position and hearing about more to come was less surprising than if he'd informed her that, outside, the sun was shining.

There was no need to have any opinion whatsoever on the transfers—in or out—because it wouldn't change a thing. Samirah was currently in a position where she had just enough power to appear like she had power, yet she knew that she had relatively little more than the prisoners that she was somewhat in charge of.

Often she felt like her job was the bastard love child of a paper pushing position and the bearer of bad news. They called it the year sixteen and Samirah had been working for almost seven of those years simply being something of a go between for those heading up several different prisons and those who were, ultimately, the voices for the decision makers—or, perhaps, decision _maker_ — for what was left of the free world.

The free world, of course, had never existed. Not really. Maybe the closest it had come was in the early years. Year one it had begun, maybe a turn toward being a free world—a truly free world—but by year seven? The freedom was waning.

They called it the year 16 A.T. It was sixteen years, give or take because the world stopped counting for a moment when it held its breath, after the turn. Some people had called it the end of days. Others had called it the end of the world. The closest, perhaps, that anyone came to the truth was when they called it the end of the world _as they knew it_. It had been that, but it had hardly been the end of the world.

Now, though, when they made maps? The maps would look very different than the ones that Samirah had learned from her father when she was younger. Populations of people were wiped out across the globe. The virus had pushed many people to extinction. Smaller countries had gone first for very practical reasons—there was nowhere to go, and when the virus spread? Space was a bigger commodity than most things. Distance between yourself and those infected, in the beginning, was what had saved those that had survived. Later there'd been other factors, for sure, but in the beginning? The room to get away from the threat, to assess it from the outside, and to figure out how to handle it was what had kept the entire human race from going extinct.

Of course, Mother Nature had a little help in cutting down the numbers of people and in virtually wiping out most of the world. Very few people knew, though, exactly what had happened. People, in general, had been too distracted by the virus itself—by the dead that had begun to terrorize the living—to even realize what else was taking place.

Every government had, in the early days of infection, had the same tagline. Don't worry. Don't panic. We have the resources that we need. We will prevail.

 _We will prevail._

None of them had ever said exactly who "we" was. The outbreak of the virus had been the perfect cover for a world war that was a long time coming. It had been the perfect cover for a world war that most didn't even know was being fought. When they'd first begun to take in prisoners, they'd all been questioned about what they saw and heard in the beginning of it all. They'd all been quizzed on their experiences—right down to the sights, smells, and tastes of the earliest days—to see what they knew.

Some remembered the helicopters. The planes. Most who would have had close, personal contact with the equipment were dead. Everyone else simply remembered them flying over in the early days. It was the government handling things. The government everywhere was _handling things_.

It just so happened that the earliest form of handling things, around the globe, was to try to eradicate the masses of people who were most likely to become infected. Already, early on and behind the scenes, those that were "important" enough – and rich enough— to be protected were being relocated. They were being moved to safe spaces and protected zones where they would be away from any chance of being infected. For all intents and purposes, they simply disappeared. They boarded very different planes than those that were dispatched to try to handle the masses like they were crop dusting undesirable humans.

At first, all the governments had been involved, from what Samirah knew. At first? It had been an understanding that had been reached more quickly and with more easy agreement than most anything the large unions had ever brought about.

But that didn't last long and the trouble started. That's how it always worked, wasn't it? People used other people, promising to share power in the future, and then? When it came down to it? They turned on each other. They turned against each other and tried to become the last man standing. It might be a lonely world on top, but it was a loneliness that many men hoped to experience.

Samirah, herself, had just reached thirty at the time of the outbreak. She'd been in New York working on an internship when everything had gone mad. Her dreams and desires back then had been to get some kind of government job working with finances. Her thirty year old self would have never imagined what that might mean for her future.

Like most of the people she was around, she evacuated the city at the first sign of the outbreak. She knew that some very influential people that she had some contact with were gone, flown somewhere else for the time being, but she didn't know where. She didn't know the details then. She only knew some of them now—she knew enough that she had to be careful to keep her mouth closed lest she be thought a threat. She knew at the time, though, that every measure was being taken and that, for her own safety, she should head for the least populated areas. They were setting up safe camps in less populated territories to protect people from the outbreak.

Space was important. Space and limited contact with anyone who had been even near the earliest signs of the virus. That was the earliest key to survival.

She remembered, in far more vivid detail than she wished to have burned into her mind, the way that things had gone. What started out well—with so much promise—had gone bad so quickly. Those who were in control—or those who thought they were in control—soon lost control.

Behind the scenes? There were power struggles and power shifts. One would be leader fell to another, fell to another, fell to another.

But all of that? It was taking place far outside the realization of the masses. The "people?" The everyday, average, run of the mill, unimportant people? They were fighting for their lives in a very different context.

Samirah had fallen on both sides before the virus started to really run its course.

Nobody knew for sure, but the history books would say that it was five years after the turn that the virus became a mid to low level threat. At that point, most of the world had figured out that the whole population was infected. It was in everyone's blood. When you died, you turned. There was no avoiding it. There was no cure. There had been mass infection.

But the virus wasn't a danger by itself. It was only a danger if the dead were left to attack the living. If put down promptly, it was no more a threat to society than the herpes' virus that caused fever blisters. It was a nuisance, perhaps, but it wasn't fatal.

By the year 5 A.T, the active level threat of the virus was fairly under control. People were adapting. They were changing. Society as it had once been was gone. It was a distant memory. A new society was rising up and it was made up of people who knew how to survive—against all odds, perhaps. It was built by people that were slowly taking their world back from the dead and were choosing to live the only way that they knew how anymore.

As the population of dead already walking started to fall "under control" and people were beginning to manage the numbers before they even grew again, the world was starting to breathe again. At least, the parts of the world that had survived the behind the scenes war were starting to breathe again.

As far as Samirah knew? Most of the world was dead now. Most of the countries that had once been something were now nothing. Maybe they were wastelands. Maybe they weren't. Maybe the powers simply said they were. Perhaps, one day, people would go exploring again and "rediscover" the other places in the same way that Columbus had discovered America.

Those in power would certainly consider whoever they found there to be savages. After all, they considered most of the masses located here to be savages.

By year 7 A.T, captivity motions were underway. Those who had come searching for civilization had already been taken in, rehabilitated, and put into "positions". They were called the people of the first wave. They were as close to untouched by what had happened as it was possible to be.

In theory? Samirah was one of the first wave people. In practice? She was never so certain, but she didn't dare to say anything. Silence, these days, was more than golden. It was required. Silence was a survival mechanism.

By the year 7, the wars that had raged on behind the scenes were quieted. A new power rose up—won fair and square in the dirtiest ways possible. A new world order was being put into place. The population would grow, but it would be a carefully culled population.

The prisons had filled, in the beginning, like the people were being poured in by the bucketful. Out of those earliest prisoners came the second wave citizens. They were tamed and rehabilitated. Those found suitable for release were turned loose to rebuild the world as the new common man. Those that remained, though, on the outskirts of the new society?

Theirs was a dark and dangerous world.

The earliest "Surrender Notices" were posted in random locations and expected to be followed by law. Samirah remembered, when she'd first heard about the practice—before the crack down on captures began—thinking it reminded her of the stories her father had told her about the Native Americans who were expected to obey relocation notices that they never saw and had no way to understand. Their obedience, though, was expected under penalty of death. Similar, she had thought, were the practices surrounding the Surrender Notices.

But she hadn't said anything. It was clear that she would have been in the minority, and the new order? It didn't take well to criticism. Not from anyone.

Samirah kept her mouth closed and worked the jobs that she was given. She moved from being nothing more than a paper pusher to a position where she worked over a small prison on the border between what had once been Tennessee and Kentucky. Her education and her new experience, as well as the fact that she was pretty good at managing things, had landed her the job that she had now.

Now?

Now she was a go-between still, but she was a go-between for the government—or at least one voice for the true power, since there were many voices that spoke for the one—and the largest prison that they currently had running.

Region Thirty Three was their special interest project.

And Samirah was expected to keep the project from failing.


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **If any of you are any good at making covers and want to make something for this one, let me know. If not, I'll try to make something generic soon, but I'm not great at it.**

 **I hope you enjoy the chapter! Let me know what you think!**

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Two days they were kept on something like lockdown for a squabble that lasted less than ten minutes and in which, as far as Daryl had been able to see, nobody so much as got injured. Their meals, though communal, were surrounded by enforced silence. Nobody was allowed to speak. They were only able to sit and eat in silence, staring at each other every now and again in an uncomfortable manner.

The officers that walked the halls and checked in on the bunks were enforcing quiet, too, in those spaces. They were allowed to speak, but not much above a whisper or they drew the attention of those very same officers.

Daryl entertained himself by reading a book that he'd picked up—some novel about aliens that was as realistic to him as any book about "regular" life was now—that was missing several pages and the front cover. T-Dog was near him, on his bunk, for most of the two days, but he didn't much want to talk to Daryl. He didn't seem to want to talk about life before the turn, because it was done he said, and he didn't want to talk about when he was wild, so there wasn't much to say.

And talking about this place? Apparently short of asking basic questions like where something was or what time something started, it was all forbidden. Any time Daryl tried to ask a question about how things worked here? People clammed up and looked away. It was the moment when all of them suddenly worried about their feet or the furniture.

Daryl decided that the first rule of Region Thirty Three, like Fight Club in a movie he'd seen once, was that nobody talked about what went on at Region Thirty Three.

Nobody except Carol, apparently, and the women with which she passed her time.

In the two days they were on lockdown, Daryl saw Carol while they ate. He saw all the women. Because of the enforced silence, though, he wasn't able to say much to them. They communicated a little with their eyes, but anything that couldn't be conveyed with a glance was off limits. He couldn't learn more about her. He couldn't learn more about any of them. He was stuck with the limited information that he had, more than one burning curiosity in his gut, and the hope that soon the people who ran this place would lift the silence that they were pressing down on everyone now.

He didn't realize, before, how much he liked communication.

And on the third day? His wish was granted. He didn't know the silence had been listed until he was lined up and marching with his fellow bunkmates toward breakfast. As they reached the door of the mess hall, the rumbling din of people speaking all at once drifted out to greet them and no one was blowing whistles or yelling at them to stop their barking. They were free to speak again.

Daryl got his tray, as he did every morning now that his life here was becoming habit, and he made his way to the table where he found Carol, Andrea, Lisette, and Dori sitting. He took his seat with them and he grunted a hello all around that they barely acknowledged with sound. They were sticking to the silent nods of the days behind them. They were still adjusting to the lifted ban on thought and word.

His first instinct was to start a conversation, but starting one was difficult. To ask what they'd been doing seemed redundant. Trapped, like him, they'd probably done very little. Stripped of recess and everything else besides the required activities for life, they'd probably been reading or maybe sharing some hushed chat about whatever they filled their days with. Recounting it wouldn't make for much interest for anyone.

And starting anything deeper?

Maybe the silence was enforced, from time to time, for more reason than simply a scuffle that might break out. The fight, perhaps, was just a cover for what would happen at any rate.

When everyone was seated and eating, Daryl watched as the guards brought in those set apart—the bound prisoners coming from taming. Whether they were new or had flagged out, he wasn't certain since they were all strangers to him. They lined them up near the tray area, but instead of leading them down to the three special tables that were "reserved" for them, they stopped them and began to release their wrists. When they were free, declared silently tame and docile, they were left to get trays and join the group again. Daryl watched them as they went in search of seats, most choosing to return to the comfort of the reserved seats for the moment. All of them kept their heads down, but the evidence of what they'd just endured was clear to anyone.

One of the women came directly toward them. She stopped just at their table and stood there, holding her tray until Daryl grew uncomfortable with the proximity and the feeling that he was expected to do something, but he had no idea what that something was.

Carol got up, without a word, and she returned a moment later with a chair that she put at the other end of the table. The woman sat at it without speaking.

Apparently she knew them.

Her familiarity with them became even more apparent when Andrea, the sulky blonde, leaned and quickly put an arm around the other woman's shoulders, leaning her face into the woman's arm.

The moment, even as Daryl was just taking it in, was interrupted by a loud bark coming from the guard that was overlooking their table.

"LC456F, you've got two flags," he warned.

Andrea straightened up, but not without glaring at the guard first.

Daryl cleared his throat, unsure of what was happening around him, and leaned around Andrea enough to see the new arrival at their table. She was a black woman and she wore the signs and marks of taming, but she didn't keep her eyes cast down. She kept them dancing, instead, so that they never landed on anyone but weren't simply brought to the table or the floor.

"I'm Daryl," Daryl offered quietly.

"LC457F," she said, her voice low and hoarse.

Daryl furrowed his brow, but he didn't say anything. He looked at Carol who was glancing back and forth between him, the guard, and the new arrival at the table. She sighed and leaned forward, bringing herself closer to Daryl by lessening the distance that the table caused between them.

"She's Michonne," Carol said. "People fresh out of taming—don't always want to make small talk."

Daryl ignored the slightly scolding tone to Carol's voice. The information that she offered was just that, information. It automatically came across as being corrected. These days? Daryl didn't find that nearly as crushing as he once might have. Everything about their lives, these days, was about correction.

"I thought Andrea was LC45 whatever F?" Daryl asked, keeping his voice low and directing his question toward Carol since Michonne didn't want to talk and Andrea didn't seem too keen on it either.

Carol glanced back at them and then back toward Daryl. She shook her head slightly, but then her words didn't match the gesture entirely.

"Andrea is LC456F," Carol said. "Michonne is LC457F."

Daryl glanced back at the women. Michonne was dancing her eyes around, but she had her face turned away from him to a degree that made it clear that she was, at the moment, not receptive to anything about their new acquaintance. Andrea was half slumping over her tray, eating, and might as well have been pretending that nobody there so much as existed.

Daryl directed his concerns back to Carol.

"Same capture facility?" Daryl asked.

A quick nod.

Of course they were likely from the same capture facility. They had odd numbers, at least for the ones that Daryl had heard, and it was probable that it was part of the labelling system of their facility and not something universal—even if Daryl didn't know why they felt the need to give their captures veritable license plates for identification.

He furrowed his brows again, formulating his next question, but he didn't even need to answer it. Carol seemed more than capable of reading his mind at the moment. She answered it without hearing it.

"Same capture," she said. "Close together."

"Not close," Andrea said, breaking her carefully guarded silence. "One right after the other."

Daryl looked at her then, convinced that if she was speaking she might as well finish telling her own story instead of making Carol give him her version of things.

Andrea looked at him, held his eyes for a moment, and then dropped hers back to her tray.

"She turned herself in," she mumbled, but she made it clear that's all she was going to say.

And Daryl made up his mind that he wasn't going to ask for more. Not from her, and not right now.

111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Allowed to recess for the first time in several days, Daryl was happy just being able to stretch his legs and feel the warmth of the sun on his face. He stretched more than was necessary and kept close to Carol whether or not she wanted him to.

She seemed to want to be quiet, so he guarded the silence for some time. He followed her to an area that was somewhat shaded by one of the walls and he watched as she sat with her back against the wall. Daryl joined her, sitting on the ground beside her. He reclined against the wall and watched, just as she did, the others who were spending their times in the ways that they chose as best.

Not twenty feet from where they sat, Daryl saw Andrea standing near Michonne. They kept a half foot of space between them, but every now and again Daryl saw the blonde dip in. She'd touch a hand to Michonne's hand. A hand to her arm.

"What's up with them?" Daryl asked, finally breaking the silence between him and Carol. "Andrea and Michonne?"

She looked in that direction and shook her head at Daryl.

"They've been together since the beginning," Carol said.

"Since the beginning of what?" Daryl asked. "Lot of beginnings these days."

"Since the turn?" Carol offered.

"Wild together and they let 'em stay together?" Daryl asked.

Carol hummed.

"Same capture facility," she said. "They haven't always been together though. There was a time when they weren't."

"What happened?" Daryl asked.

Carol hummed and shook her head.

"It isn't my story to tell," she said.

"Can't get it from them," Daryl said. "Don't neither of 'em say nothing."

"They will," Carol said. "Just—give it time. Michonne's just out of taming. Andrea's..."

She never did finish telling him what Andrea was. She fell into silence and sighed rather deeply.

"Just give it time," Carol said.

"Got plenty of that," Daryl said.

He sat for a moment and leaned his head back against the wall. He looked at the sky above him. It never changed. Sure, sometimes it was sunny, and sometimes it was cloudy and overcast, but the sky itself never changed. He could still see in it the same things he'd seen all along. It showed, unlike the land that was marked now, that some things had never really been affected by the hell on Earth that they'd all been through.

"Were you alone?" Daryl asked. "Out there? Were you—wild alone or...did they split you too?"

Carol didn't say anything and Daryl looked at her to see if she'd heard his question. She was sitting, now, with her elbows on her knees in front of her. She was studying the ground between her legs.

Suddenly, she pushed herself up and took to her feet with the swift movement.

"It's too hot out here," she said, even though it wasn't that hot at all. "I've got a few things to do."

Daryl, realizing that he'd overstepped some kind of boundary for the moment, got to his feet as quickly as he could. She was already starting to walk away from him, no more of a goodbye offered, and he reached a hand out and caught her shoulder.

He snatched it back when he heard a guard near him call out that there was no touching.

Carol turned back to look at him, though, her face showing her frustration at the moment.

"I'm sorry," Daryl said. "Didn't mean to ask you somethin' that was gonna upset you. I'm still—it's been a long time since I talked to people. I weren't never good at it. I guess—I'm worse at it now. I just wanted to know...something else about you."

She stared at him, her face not changing its expression, and he wished he hadn't asked anything at all.

"I'm sorry," he repeated.

Carol nodded.

"It's fine," she said. "Just—it's fine. I have to go."

Daryl let her go, but he couldn't resist asking one last question and hoping he got the response from her that he wanted, though he would have understood if he hadn't.

"Can I still—eat lunch with you?" He asked.

She stopped walking again and turned back. Her expression was different now. It was softer. It softened even more in the short interval that she spent looking at him.

"You better," she said, the corners of her mouth curling up just slightly and causing Daryl to mimic the expression before she turned to continue on in the direction that she'd started, heading back toward the buildings with the same determined steps she seemed to use to get anywhere that she had to go.


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: Here we are, another chapter here. I don't know if I can say there are more answers or more mysteries. I'll leave that up to you to decide.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Daryl had occupied himself for the rest of his recess by asking one of the guards if he could find out about the classes that Carol had mentioned to him that the place offered. The guard had seemed somewhat anxious to give him information on them, and he'd been taken through to another building that smelled like mold and school glue.

There he'd had the chance to stand and listen to a woman who was probably camp counselor worthy while she told him about all the wonderful things he could do to fill his time—none of them were even remotely interesting, of course, but they were all available to him at any point that he wanted to sign up for one of the classes.

He didn't tell her directly that he'd skip macaroni art, because he figured she might find him insulting and do something ridiculous like flag him for it, so he said that he'd think about it. And then he'd thought about how much he wasn't going to do a single damn one of their activities the whole way back to the yard.

The time from recess to lunch was minimal. They'd been allowed outside for most of the day, though Carol had never come back. Daryl had spent most of his time trying to figure out how to get close enough to the guys that were smoking cigarettes to strike up a conversation and find out where they got them and how he might acquire some of his own. When they'd been temporarily herded back inside, it had only been for bathroom breaks and some kind of bunk inspection where Daryl quickly learned that his bed should be made every day—something he wasn't used to—because that's what civilized people did and he didn't want to be mistook for being anything less than that.

Lunch passed with some of the same silence as the morning meal, and it seemed that Michonne was now a fixture at their table. Daryl didn't mind the silence as much, though, because once—just as he'd sat down—he'd caught Carol smiling softly at him before she'd dropped her eyes to her plate and focused on the food that they were meant to consume before they were left for an afternoon of leisure if nobody fucked up and got them all put under lock down again.

Daryl followed Carol out from lunch just as he had from breakfast, but this time they found themselves with something of an audience. Andrea and Michonne tagged along near them and didn't show any signs of going off on their own. When Carol designated the spot that she was going to sit, stretching her legs in front of her on the ground, everyone else followed suit.

Carol, it seemed, made a good deal of the decisions—and Daryl wasn't sure if that was some kind of "rule" of their "group" or if it was simply the way that things seemed to happen.

Still, he had no argument with it, and he settled down next to her on the grass as soon as their location was chosen.

"Is it illegal to ask questions around here?" Daryl asked when he was seated. "I can't help but notice that everybody gets uptight about it."

He didn't get a response at first from any of the three women around him. Then Andrea turned and looked around, one direction and then another, to verify that they were without immediate supervision. None of the officers found four people sitting on the grass to be too much of concern.

"You can ask whatever you want," Andrea said when she was satisfied that there were no guards close by. "But nobody's under any obligation to answer you. Not about their lives."

"You have to be careful," Carol said, filling in the blanks that Andrea left. "Around here? Sometimes just—saying that you don't like eggs? It can be seen as criticism. And criticism? It can be seen as unrest. And unrest? Unrest gets you flags and lands you in taming."

"They're fond of that shit here," Daryl said.

"More than you'll ever imagine," Michonne said. It was the first real thing the woman had said to him and Daryl believed her—after all, she was fresh out of taming and it was clear it wasn't her first trip there. He wanted to press to find out exactly what the taming was like here, since it seemed to be at least a little different in every location, but he knew that asking her to recount it right now would be cruel just to feed his curiosity.

"You got two tags," Daryl said, directing his question toward Andrea. "Can I ask—what they for?"

Andrea glanced at Michonne and then she stretched her back, dropping her hands behind her, palms down, to hold a reclining position.

"Improper conduct," Andrea said. "I've been through taming here—what? I don't know. I can't even count. I don't even keep count."

"Why do you keep going back?" Daryl asked.

"Because some people just can't be tamed," Carol said.

Daryl looked at her. Her expression wasn't one of malice. It was a joke. She was wearing a half-smile. Andrea, too, rather than taking offense to such a suggestion seemed amused. She nodded her head, more or less bobbing it from side to side.

"Some people won't be tamed," she said.

"Improper conduct covers everything," Carol said. She visibly checked their surroundings, just as Andrea had done earlier, to make sure that nobody had decided to walk near them and might overhear their chat. "It's bogus most of the time. You find an officer that doesn't like you? Piss one off? You'll get tagged for improper conduct for the way you put the cap on the toothpaste."

Daryl chewed on the new knowledge for a minute, not that it was too new. In most places you had to be careful. If someone didn't like you, for whatever reason? They'd make your life a living hell. They could do that because they mattered and you didn't. Nobody was looking into the charges brought against an inmate. There was no judge or jury or justice system that said whether or not they were being treated fairly. They were wild animals, plain and simple. At the core of it? They'd always be wild. The taming? The domestication process? They went through it but there was no guarantee that it would stick. For some it simply didn't stick. Sometimes the re-taming was legitimate. Sometimes someone snapped. They became a danger to themselves. They became a danger to others. They went back through taming or, if that didn't seem to work, they went away—to wherever it was they took the wilds that simply couldn't be made docile.

But sometimes? It was just bogus shit that somebody made up because your face wasn't one that they cared to see. And when you were an inmate? There was nothing you could do about it. There was nobody on your side and nobody was looking out for you. At least, not on an individual level—the government, of course, was always interested in you and your place within the greater population.

He looked at Andrea, determined to drain the blonde of information for as long as she was offering it over.

"You pissed someone off?" He asked.

"I've pissed a few people off," she responded. "Everybody has. You stay here long enough and you will too. Some people? Live to be pissed off."

Daryl waited, sure that there was plenty more information to be told—like who she'd pissed off, how she'd done it, and who around here lived to be pissed off and should be avoided—but nothing else was said. If he was getting anything out of anyone, it was up to him to drag the information out one question at a time.

He'd never been much for conversation, but it appeared he was about to have to become the chattiest asshole in the whole of Region Thirty Three or he was going to have to live his life in a constant state of wonder.

"How'd you get matching numbers?" He asked, offering the question up to Michonne and Andrea both. He had a pretty good idea, from what Carol had told him, that they were out there together. It wasn't that uncommon that someone got captured with someone else—they took them in groups as often as they could—but he still didn't know all the details.

"She turned herself in," Andrea said.

Daryl looked at Michonne, but she wasn't going to say anything at the moment and that was clear. She'd set her face and she almost had a stone countenance. It was too soon, perhaps, out of training for her to want to share a lot of information. Carol had warned him to be patient with her and he was starting to realize that the patience Carol had spoken of had to simply carry over to everything.

Luckily, he had a great deal of patience and he had more time than he knew what to do with for it to take effect.

He turned his attention back to Andrea, but the expression on her face said that either she was tiring of questions or he was beginning to tread into territory that she didn't want to follow him into.

"They shot me," Andrea said. "When they captured me? They shot me. She turned herself in."

Daryl swallowed.

From what he understood, they didn't hurt people during capture if they could avoid it. Capture was, and they told them this often—reminded them of it in case they forgot—for their own good. It was to save them from themselves. It was to save them from each other. It was to save them from the wilderness—both that around them and that which had started to be inside of them.

"They shot you?" Daryl asked. "Why—would they shoot you?"

Immediately he saw it. The moment that he'd hit a brick wall. He'd asked all that he was allowed to ask and he'd made more the welcome amount of conversation for the day. Andrea's face went as stone-like as Michonne's and she got to her feet. She offered a hand to Michonne and the woman took it. Andrea pulled her to her feet and Daryl held his breath, half expecting a booming voice to remind Andrea of the number of flags that she had or to tell her that she'd just flagged out and was on her way to taming again. The voice didn't come, though. Nobody had noticed the touch.

Either that or touch, as long as it was something acceptable, was allowed.

Daryl hadn't learned all the rules yet, and the longer that he stayed there, the more he realized there were a lot of rules to learn.

Just as Carol had done earlier, the women offered no real goodbye. They offered no real confirmation that they were leaving. There was no closure to the conversation. The only evidence that Daryl had that his question wasn't going to be answered was the fact that they walked off and left him sitting there in the grass.

"Did they shoot you too?" Daryl asked. "Or—I can't ask that?"

Carol sucked in a breath.

"That's their story," she said. "That's—theirs to tell when they're ready. Just..."

"Give it time," Daryl supplied for her. "Yeah, I got that. You didn't answer the question."

"You haven't told me anything about yourself," Carol said.

The tables turned, Daryl suddenly got a churning feeling in the pit of his stomach. He was walking around asking questions and expecting information. He wanted to hear everyone's stories. He wanted to know everything that they had to tell.

What he'd forgotten was that was—given the old rules of polite conversation that applied, at least somewhat loosely today—that meant that he should also give them personal information himself.

It mean that he was going to have to go back in his mind to a time that he didn't always like to remember in great detail and he was going to have to trudge it out for them. He understood, just thinking about it, why it was that they left when the question was one that they didn't want to answer. It was easier just to walk away from it.

But walking away would mean leaving Carol sitting there, alone, in the grass. And, for whatever reason, Daryl didn't want to do that.

Quid pro quo. He wouldn't give her everything. Eventually, maybe he'd tell her everything. But there was time for that.


	8. Chapter 8

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think.**

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

The weight was heavy on Carol's shoulders as she made her way back toward her bunk alone. She left recess early, carrying with her what Daryl had shared of his story. By now, she was well-known enough among the guards that she could come and go pretty much as she pleased as long as she was within the boundaries.

There was no enforced rule that said she had to enjoy the somewhat forced socialization of recess. She was allowed, if she chose solitude, to return to her bunk alone.

At some point in her life, though Carol couldn't exactly recall when, she'd become particularly susceptible to carrying the weight of other people. It was the only way that she could explain it. It was different than simply feeling sorry for them, or even just feeling for them. She could witness someone's hardship, or even just hearing about it was enough, and she walked away from the interaction feeling markedly _heavier._

They would say, here, that there was no way that she could feel what she did. Her own story didn't weigh on her, so the stories of others couldn't. Nothing could weigh on her. To feel sorry for others—to feel at all? It was a human emotion. It was a human instinct. It didn't belong to animals.

Animals, they would say, couldn't show compassion. Animals, they told them, didn't feel. Animals knew nothing more than the law of nature—the brute law. Kill or be killed.

And Carol was nothing more than an animal. They told her that.

She didn't believe it at all, but she had to pretend that she believed it. Anything else? It would be going against the collective beliefs of the new order of society. It would be, she was certain, punishable.

So Carol pretended not to be moved by her own story. She swallowed it down, choked it back, clawed her own arms and bit the insides of her own mouth to keep from letting loose the emotions she felt. And she pretended not to be moved by the stories of others—though every one of them affected her and every one she kept somewhere within her, helping to carry the weight of each of the stories lest they crush the person to whom they belonged.

She had been there when each of her friends had arrived. She'd been there when they'd first come from taming. She'd seen the hollow look in their eyes. She'd seen the pain—a different kind of pain than even that which they brought with them. She'd heard them tell their stories in secret because they were afraid to feel what they were told that they could no longer feel and no longer understand.

If they'd ever actually been human.

She tried not to "collect," as she thought of it, new arrivals too often. She tried not to take in more than she could handle. The weight of it all would crush her, she feared, if she choked down too much of it.

She still wasn't sure why she'd chosen Daryl.

He'd looked so lost. He'd looked so alone. People were social animals, even if they were animals. They needed others. They needed help carrying the weight of their stories because they couldn't carry it all alone. They were never designed to do that. Even if they were animals.

He'd looked alone and lost and forgotten. The system that promised him that he'd be taken care of had failed him. It had broken him to the point that he would obey without question, but it had done nothing to help him. It had only helped itself. It hadn't built him up, as they faintly promised they would, to become something _closer to human_. It had simply made of him what it really wanted them all to be—domesticated animals. The goal was to make them all the government's lap cats or faithful retrievers that would curl at their master's feet and worship him merely for existing.

If they wouldn't submit willingly? They'd be broken. And they'd be broken again and again and again—however long it took, didn't matter. A dead animal was no heartbreak to the government, especially if the animal in question would never be domesticated.

He hadn't been alone out there. Most of them hadn't. Humans were pack animals. The government was right about one thing. In the wild? Their instincts had begun to kick in. The animal instincts that they'd buried down deep, the ones that had been dormant for so long? They'd begun to kick in. Among them was the need for a pack.

You could survive, but very few could survive alone.

Daryl hadn't been alone. He spoke, with some tenderness, of his brother. He told how the two of them had started their trip into the wilderness together. He told how they'd survived together, and how it hadn't always been easy. He'd skipped—and Carol knew it was on purpose—the details of everything that had happened during the time that he had slowly become the animal that the government would report having captured. He spoke of his capture, but he spoke of it in vague terms. They all spoke of their capture in vague terms—at least for a while.

But Carol noticed that he didn't speak of the brother anymore. This faithful brother who had started the journey into the wilderness with Daryl had, at some point in the narration, simply become a person of smoke and fog. He was _there_. Carol could feel him in the story, but he wasn't there. Daryl didn't speak of him. He didn't mention his capture. He didn't mention the after-hours when they would have been transferred to a facility. He didn't mention if they went to taming together. He never said when it was that they were split.

He simply, and very intentionally, forgot to mention the brother.

He forgot to say when it was, exactly, that he first became truly alone in the world.

And Carol hadn't told him that she knew what he was leaving out of the story. She hadn't told him that she understood why he felt the need to keep those details to himself for just a while longer. She didn't tell him her own story and she didn't tell him that she, too, hadn't been alone when the government had come to rescue her from herself.

She'd only told him that she had things to do and that she would see him at dinner. And then she'd taken the weight of his story with her, back to her bunk, where she could sit in private and lick her wounds—wounds she inflicted on herself by inviting in the hurt from his experiences. Wounds that came from the story of a man who was so much more than he realized he was. A man who was so much more than they told him he was and allowed him to be.

It had been a long time since Carol had licked wounds that were caused by a man. The feeling was strange.

And it brought with it other feelings. Feelings they'd tell her that she wasn't capable of having, no matter how strongly she felt them. Feelings that felt not entirely un-animalistic. She'd forgotten she could have them, yet there they were.

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"Fresh from the Pony Express," Randall Oliver said as he passed Samirah the bulky package that she'd been waiting for. She offered him the best smile she could, a reward for his attempt at humor, and tucked the package under her arm until she made it back to her office and closed herself inside with the black coffee that she'd really gone seeking.

The package, she'd thought, might not arrive for another week.

It was a large bundle wrapped first in brown paper. Then it was sealed shut with packing tape and over top of that was placed the large wrap-around seal of the government. It was confidential. The measures that they went to were to make sure that no one opened it and no one saw what was inside. Everything, these days, was top-secret, even if it would have been of little interest to anyone else.

Before she used the knife in her desk drawer to cut the package open, Samirah inspected it as she'd been instructed to do. If there had been any signs of tamper or damage—beyond that which naturally happened as the mail made its way from one location to another in a rougher manner than maybe it once had—she'd have been responsible for reporting it. If she'd reported damage? Anyone who had touched it, for any reason at all, would be likely to be punished.

For that reason alone, no one had tampered with the package.

She sighed as she freed the stack of papers from their bundle and started to look through them. They were plans and instructions. They were the steps that she was expected to follow to get the project underway.

She wasn't the first that had organized something like this, but it was the first thing she'd been in charge of and it felt daunting. It felt like it was too much to handle. She really had no choice, though. She had to go through with it. To voice any of her uncertainties about anything that they passed down to her would be to put herself in danger.

Samirah put the stack of papers on the desk and read through the first few pages. The first pages were nothing more than a reiterated greeting much like those that she'd received in email and over the phone. The voice that was her go-between spent several pages praising her for everything she'd done so far. It made it sound like the paper pushing and few decisions she'd made had really done something wonderful to shape the future of the nation.

The voice that was her go-between spent another few pages discussing that very future. The vision of the powers for where the human race was headed was stated there, in brief and somewhat idealistic terms, for Samirah to read and remind herself of what they were doing and why they were saying that they were doing it. It reminded her, in case she'd forgotten the lessons she'd learned when she was first pulled out of the wreckage that their world had become. Everything that the government did was for the good of the people and the good of the future generations.

The voice thanked her for what she would do and declared the upmost confidence that she would be able to accomplish every goal that she set for herself—and every goal that was set for her.

And then the documents started to pass into that which was newer information for Samirah. She'd had relatively little say in what would happen with the project. Her "opinions" had been asked, but she'd known even then that she was only being asked to give the correct opinions. She'd done what was expected of her.

For at least an hour or two, Samirah sat at her desk with her head resting on her hand and she read. To anyone who passed by her office and glanced inside, it might have looked like she was reading a book. The contents of the pile certainly read like a book—even if it would have been something of a cult classic more than great literature.

When she'd finally read enough that her eyes were burning with their efforts, Samirah sighed and straightened the pages. She didn't have to read them all tonight, and she didn't have to read all the details. Most of it she already understood.

She picked up the phone and dialed the number that she'd saved in speed dial weeks ago, when she'd first taken the job. It was a number she called often.

"John?" She said when the man picked up on the other end. "How are things? New arrivals?"

She listened as the man on the other end of the line, someone in a position of power that was as powerless as she was, recounted the things that might be of interest to her at Region Thirty Three. To pass the few minutes and to keep on top of her responsibilities, she jotted down on a square of paper a few points to discuss with him in detail later. When he'd finished speaking, and fell silent to give her a chance to respond, she changed the subject to the reason for her call.

"I'm making a trip down there," she said. "I can probably get out of here in three or four days? Thanks—I'd love to stay with you. See Regina. Listen—I heard from the head of corrections and the planning board. No—nothing new. Not—not really. I need you to start getting the files together? I don't know—at least two hundred to start?"

She smiled to herself. John Hokes was always pleasant. Sometimes? He could be one of the best things about this job. Samirah knew the importance of looking for the silver lining in everything.

"No...no...don't send them," she said when John had finished giving some preliminary ideas he had about everything. "I'll get them faster if I pick them up myself. Check your email. I'll send you some things before I leave today. You can start getting it ready. My love to Regina?"

Hanging up the phone, Samirah slipped the papers into her briefcase so that they wouldn't be seen by anyone else—not that anyone would have any great interest in them. They were all working for the same power. They were all working toward the same end. But protocol, not followed, could get someone in trouble.

Then she read back over her notes from the scratch paper and opened a document on her computer to start organizing things and ironing out details.

She hated heading up a project this big, but the only way to get it done was to get it started.


	9. Chapter 9

**AN: Here we go, another chapter.**

 **I hope that you enjoy. Let me know what you think!**

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

After dinner, Carol had taken Daryl to what they called the Rec room. Her friends, three of them at least, had come in tow. It was part of the building that Daryl had come to earlier to find out about all the macaroni art classes that were available to them should they be seeking stress relief that could only be brought about by the calming and traditional art of gluing noodles no good for eating to scraps of paper.

The whole building smelled like glue, mold, and—at least to Daryl—nightmares from grammar school. Of all the buildings he'd been in so far, which weren't that many from what it appeared the prison had to offer, the recreation building was by far the shittiest.

To gain access to the space, the only thing they'd really had to do was go through a regular check before entering the building. The guard stopped them and each of them was to hold their hands out to the side, do a full turn for inspection, and then stop with their backs to the guard and wait to be patted down and cleared. Daryl thought the officer took a little longer, and was a little more thorough, when checking the women he was with for anything they shouldn't have, but he guessed that was probably how things went around here. Other than some less than pleasant facial expressions, none of the women gave away that they noticed the overly thorough inspection too much.

Just as they walked into the building, leaving the guard behind, Daryl heard the guard yell out "Three to five". The women kept walking, so he kept walking too, but the moment they showed him into the little room where they were going to "do a puzzle," Daryl decided it was open to ask the question.

"Three to five?" He asked, watching as Michonne went to get a puzzle box from the shelves and Lisette set about clearing a space on the floor that would be large enough for everyone to sit with the puzzle that they very likely would never even begin working.

"Three to five minutes," Carol said. Daryl raised his eyebrows at her to ask for more information. That's all he was doing these days. He felt like there was nothing that didn't beg him to ask for more. "Three to five minutes," Carol repeated. "A guard will be set to pass by every three to five minutes. Look in the door. Do a head count. Walk away. Then he'll come back."

"Seems like a lotta damn work," Daryl said. "Just to make sure some fight don't break out over some board games."

"Monopoly does get kind of heated," Carol said. She laughed at her own joke and Daryl couldn't help but smile at it—though he was really smiling more at how she looked when she so pleased with something as simple as a silly joke. It was a welcomed change from her more serious countenance that seemed to be the norm when they were with the rest of the general population.

"It isn't for fights," Andrea said. "It's for fucking."

Daryl handn't really thought of that even being too much of an issue. The place had pretty tight security, so it wasn't like it was happening right under the noses of the guards. Of course, being as he had always "taken his time" on things like that—too much time, some might say—he also didn't think of it quite as readily as some might. He was, perhaps, quicker to accept a look but don't touch policy.

"So that happens a lot around here?" Daryl asked.

"Improper conduct, inmate!" Lisette belted out.

The sound of her voice coming out louder than it normally would in such a small room made Daryl jump. The barked words, however, struck all the women as hilarious and they laughed at the joke that they shared over it. Apparently it happened more than Daryl might have imagined.

"Improper conduct covers everything," Carol said, apparently seeing Daryl's confusion and wanting to bring him into the joke as well. "So—when a guard catches two inmates..."

She stopped and wiggled her eyebrows, smirking at herself even as she did. She was, for just a moment, genuinely embarrassed by the conversation and it was all over her face. Daryl bit his lip to keep from laughing at her embarrassment and nodded.

"Well—then they yell out 'Improper conduct, inmate,'" Carol finished. She shrugged at the end of her statement as if to say that was simply all it was.

"I didn't even think of it being no problem," Daryl admitted. "Shit's so locked up and they—hell, I guess I was in something like solitary for so long at the other places? You forget that kinda thing happens."

Everyone sat on the floor, so Daryl followed suit. He took a seat next to Carol and watched as Michonne opened the puzzle box and dumped all the pieces on the floor in front of them all. Hands went into the pile and they started sorting them, face up. The puzzle was to keep their hands busy. It was to make it look like they'd legitimately come in here to pass their time with a game. Daryl had already learned that outside. He'd also learned that Carol, and the others too he could supposed, retired to the Rec room because it was quiet and very few inmates ever came there. Very few people realized that while miming the puzzle work was obligatory, actually doing the puzzle was not.

Daryl looked up when he heard the heavy footsteps of a guard. Just as the women said he would, one of the officers stopped outside the door. He leaned in, quietly counted all of them, and then he stepped back out without a word and continued on down the hallway.

Lisette made something of a snorting noise and Daryl looked at her when everyone else did.

"Coming 'round here to make sure the only puzzle pieces getting fitted together are gonna end up making a nice picture of some Labradors," Lisette said.

A collective bunch of snickers ran through them all and, for a moment, Daryl felt strangely out of place. He felt like he was invading some foreign land. Except, he had been invited here. He was welcome. And even if he didn't understand why, he appreciated his acceptance into the small group.

"Is that why everyone sort of—stays apart?" Daryl asked.

He had everyone's attention for a moment. Sitting on the hard floor, all concrete under the thin and very well-worn layer of carpet, and talking like this? Everyone seemed different. Everyone seemed like they'd gone back in time. They weren't inmates at Region Thirty Three. They weren't dociles. They'd gone back even farther than their days as wilds.

This? It was pleasant. For a moment it was almost the most pleasant interaction that Daryl could ever imagine having. The chat here? It seemed easier to have. It seemed to just come naturally. Nobody was wearing the strained and worried expression that they'd had outside when he'd tried to talk to them about their lives.

Here? In the Rec room? Daryl might actually get some answers to the ever growing list of questions that he had about his new companions.

"People are going to naturally be around who they feel more comfortable with," Carol offered. "And maybe, for some people, that's a single sex environment."

She shrugged.

"And some are coming from male or female camps," she added. "Maybe it's just what you're used to."

"A lot of it has to do with the enforced separation," Lisette said. Carol looked at her and for just a second the two women locked eyes across the small circle that all made with their bodies.

"What separation?" Daryl asked.

Carol looked at him like she would answer, but then she stopped before she formed a word and dropped her eyes back to the pieces of the puzzle that she was turning over and over in her hands. Daryl heard the sound of approaching boots and made a show of examining the pieces of the puzzle that were closest to him as though the edges were the thing of greatest concern in his life at the moment.

The guard stuck his head in, went through the count again silently, and then walked away. He whistled as he went, this time, the sound trailing back behind him and echoing in the otherwise empty hallway.

Daryl waited a moment and then looked at Carol.

"What separation?" He asked.

Some of the tension had returned to her with the checking of the guard. It was visible in how she held her shoulders. He could see it on her face. She leaned closer to him and spoke with a softer voice than they'd been using before.

"For a while, we were on lockdown," Carol said. "Region Thirty Three is coed, but for a while they tried to separate the general population. Women went to eat with the other women. We had recess while the men ate. Then—back to bunks and the men had recess."

Daryl shrugged.

"Why?" He asked. "Why go through makin' the thing coed if you just gonna split people up? Don't make no sense."

To Daryl, doing something like that seemed like taking one step forward and two steps back. It would require more guards and it would require a lot more effort to watch the prisoners if you were going to enforce no interaction whatsoever between the men and the women. It would be simpler, honestly, to just have two separate camps—like most places.

"The split was temporary," Michonne said quietly. She was working on a small square of the puzzle and she almost had part of what appeared to be a duck put together. She was the only one who seemed genuinely interested in the activity. "There were more than a few inmates that turned up pregnant. The government didn't want to have to deal with all the messy after effects. There was some question about how it was happening if security was being enforced. There was a crackdown and there was separation."

"How do you know?" Daryl asked.

"Besides the fact that I can put two and two together?" Michonne asked sharply. Then her expression softened and she looked almost apologetic. Almost. "I used to—work for the government. Before the turn. With the law. I have a pretty good idea of how things work. It's different now, but some things don't change."

"So inmates was knockin' each other up?" Daryl asked.

"Most of it wasn't inmates," Andrea said. Daryl looked at her and she shook her head. She looked almost amused by the whole thing. "They said it was inmates, but most of it wasn't. Most of it was..."

Instead of saying anything, she simply gestured her head in the direction of the hallway. Daryl furrowed his brow at her.

"The guards was knockin' people up?" Daryl asked.

He got shushed by all four women collectively and it was effective. It took him a solid minute to relax enough to feel like speaking. By then, he had to sit quietly and wait for their guard to come around do his little inspection. Once he'd gone clomping off again, for however long it would take him to reach the end of the hall and make his way back, Andrea had decided to speak and enlighten him a little more.

"You can't say anything about it," Andrea said, keeping her voice low—something uncharacteristic for her. Of course, she was treading a fine line with two flags to her name already. "They know you can't. If you do? It's criticism. They'll call it what they want, but you'll get flagged. If you say it was a guard? Two flags. One for criticism, one for lying."

"And you can bet they'll trump up a reason to add the third," Lisette said. She hummed to herself as though to confirm her own words were true.

Daryl was stunned. Maybe he was naïve. Maybe he should've thought all of these things would happen regularly. He hadn't thought about it, though. Never, really. It hadn't been an issue in any of the places he'd been and it had never really entered his mind. After all, the government was there to protect them. It would keep them safe from themselves. It would keep them safe from all the evil that they were capable of and it would help them become normal, good citizens—even if they were normal citizens who lived in cages like zoo animals. The officers were the closest representatives they had of that government. They were the closest examples they had of humans who had never been wild. They were the nearest examples of people who didn't behave as animals did.

 _But then, maybe they still did._

Daryl was a little uneasy with the chain of thoughts that came crashing through him as he considered this information that was new to him. He didn't say any more about it, though, and he wouldn't until he'd had time to mull it over, so that the women wouldn't think he was foolish for simply having neglected to consider anything like this a very real possibility.

He swallowed.

"What happened to the ones that got knocked up?" Daryl asked.

The women exchanged looks. No one answered him. He wondered if they were trying to figure out how obvious of an answer he really needed and didn't want to be insulting. He decided to clarify.

"What happened to the kids?" He asked. "After they was borned? They keep 'em or what?"

Daryl could practically feel a change come over the air around him. Gone was the lightness that had been in the room before. Gone was the ambiance that was suitable for playful chatter. There weren't any smiles on lips and there wasn't the glimmer in anyone's eye of someone that was enjoying a playful exchange.

All the women suddenly looked much tenser than they had before. They exchanged looks between them that Daryl wasn't invited to understand.

Finally it was Carol that broke the silence.

"Wilds aren't fit to raise children," Carol said. "And prisons aren't the place for that. They took them—that's all anybody knows. They took them...to...to a..."

She seemed to be struggling to find an answer for Daryl. Maybe she didn't know the answer or maybe she couldn't quite recall what would be the correct answer.

"To a better place," she said, finally, though her voice didn't make it sound at all like she believed what she was saying.

Before Daryl could even open his mouth to press for more information, Andrea got to her feet. She didn't offer, as none of them ever seemed to do, any kind of farewell to the group. She simply left the room and ducked down the hallway that would take her back to the open air. Michonne, in the same fashion, took to her feet and darted after Andrea. Carol stood then too. Unlike Michonne and Andrea, though, she at least offered the excuse that she had to go. She had something to do, and then she left through the same hallway.

Lisette got to her feet and Daryl looked up at the woman. She frowned at him, but it was more a frown of pity than one of genuine disgust or sadness.

"I guess you're going too?" Daryl asked. "I seem to have a way of getting people to go places."

She continued to stare at him a moment longer, and then, in the somewhat odd accent she had, she spoke to him with more sincerity than she ever had before.

"If you're going to ask questions, then you're going to have to accept the answers you get," Lisette said. "Like putting the Labradors together. You reach into the pile. Just because you wanted the nose doesn't mean that you won't get a tail. You keep picking up the pieces, though, and you'll get the nose."

Daryl was almost amused, but he understood.

"Yeah," he said, nodding. "Sorry—by the way—if I said something wrong."

Lisette hummed.

"You'll pick up the puzzle pieces?" She asked. "If we don't leave the room as we found it, we can't come back to it."

Daryl looked at the scattered pieces on the floor, Michonne's spot the only one marked by a partially constructed section of the picture they were trying to recreate, and he nodded.

"I got it," he said.

And he assumed she heard him because, without saying anything, she turned and left him there while she walked—with much less urgency—out of the room and down the little hallway.


	10. Chapter 10

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"T," Daryl said, his voice barely above a whisper. It wasn't carrying far, but it didn't have far to go. He'd "negotiated" with the person next to his bed to get him to switch with T-Dog. It hadn't been too hard of a negotiation since the man next to him clearly didn't want to be talked to. At the threat that Daryl, apparently something of a chatty person around here, might actually try to engage with him further, the man had quickly given up and even offered to help move T-Dog's few belongings over just a little. T-Dog hadn't seemed to have much of an opinion on the whole thing and Daryl had decided to take that as a sign that he wanted them to be "bunk mates" and he wanted to be closer for conversation—even if it ended up being a good deal one-sided. "T," Daryl repeated into the semi-darkness of their room. Light flooded in from the hallway, where guards were keeping something of an eye on everyone, and kept the room from ever being fully dark.

"What?" T-Dog responded at just the moment that Daryl had decided to accept that he'd fallen asleep.

"Can I ask you somethin'?" Daryl asked.

"You're gonna do it anyway," T-Dog responded. "What the hell you want to know now? And I'm still not telling you shit about Jacqui. You can forget you ever heard her name."

Daryl winced a little at the bite of the comment, but he accepted it. He'd realized, earlier, that people just didn't take well to his questions. He'd managed in running the women off during their puzzle time and at dinner everyone had seemed just a little more distant and quiet than even was usual for them. People around here didn't ask each other questions often. They offered what they wanted, when they wanted, and they accepted what they got. They asked for nothing more.

But Daryl couldn't do that. Maybe once he could have. In fact, he knew that once he would have preferred it that way. But he'd been so long without the interaction of others that now it was almost like a hunger. He'd always had a need to understand what was going on around him, even if he only understood it in so far as it made sense to him, and this was no different. The only way that he had to understand Region Thirty Three was through those that seemed to have naturally come to understand the location and the way that things worked.

And having been so long alone? He had a strange need, too, to understand the people around him. He knew how he got here. He knew what he'd been through. He knew about his life before the turn. He knew about his time as a wild. He knew what had happened since he was captured. He wanted to understand, though, if his experiences had been universal or if, by some chance, there was much that he'd somehow missed.

He wanted to know how it all compared.

And to find that out? He had to keep asking the questions. He had to keep dipping into the pile for more pieces of the puzzle. And he had to accept that sometimes there was going to be biting and growling and gnashing of teeth. Sometimes there was going to be avoidance and raised shackles. But if he kept a hand out to sniff, in a gesture of innocence and good will, eventually they'd come back—and maybe a little closer the next time.

After all, they were all animals.

"I weren't gonna ask you nothing personal," Daryl said. "Nothing about—you know who."

T-Dog rolled around in his bed with some apparent irritation since Daryl could hear the sounds of his sheets and blanket moving.

"What do you want?" He asked.

"Were you here when they was a separation?" Daryl asked. "When it weren't coed because the women was showing up knocked up?"

Silence for a moment, but Daryl was developing infinite patience, so he waited it out while T-Dog decided if he was here or not and exactly how much he wanted to say about the whole thing.

"Yeah," T-Dog said, not offering anything else for at least two beats of time. "Why? You were thinking about getting someone pregnant?"

Daryl laughed quietly to himself. At least T-Dog's humor was still intact sometimes.

"What happened?" Daryl asked. "When the whole thing happened?"

Silence, followed by a hum of consideration.

"What do you mean what happened?" T-Dog asked. "Women got pregnant. They weren't supposed to do that. They launched an investigation and some big wigs come in and they ask a bunch of questions and then—there's a separation and we're all men on one schedule and women on another."

"They figure out who any of the men was? That done it?" Daryl asked.

Silence. Another hum. Then the sharp hiss of sucking teeth.

"Man I don't want to gossip with you about shit that doesn't matter," T-Dog said.

Daryl thought about it. It didn't matter. Not really. It didn't affect him personally. Whether or not anything had happened here prior to his arrival was really irrelevant. However, the response from the women around him, earlier, made it feel like it mattered.

"Did they figure anybody out?" Daryl repeated, deciding to ignore T-Dog's need to snap at him.

"Couple of dudes around here took the fall," T-Dog said, but he didn't sound too convinced.

"What'd they do to them?" Daryl asked.

T-Dog laughed to himself.

"Took 'em out," T-Dog said. "Transferred I guess. Didn't see none of them again."

"But?" Daryl asked.

"But?" T-Dog repeated.

"You don't sound like you believe that," Daryl said. "Sounds to me like you telling me a story that you been told to tell me."

A hum in the negative.

"Not a story I was told to tell," T-Dog said. "Just the story. Some women said it was guards. They never found any guards responsible for it. It was just—the dudes that got transferred somewhere. Somewhere for people like that. Wild thing to do—probably a different facility for them."

Daryl heard, loud and clear, what wasn't being said. He understood, too, that maybe it simply couldn't be said. After all, criticism wasn't allowed. And even though they couldn't see the guard that was keeping watch over them for the night, that didn't mean that he wasn't in the hallway and it didn't mean that he couldn't overhear anything and everything that they were talking about. It would be difficult, no doubt, to make out their low voices in the large room, but that didn't mean that T-Dog was willing to be reckless and it didn't mean that Daryl should take his chances.

He rolled over on his side and adjusted his position.

"What happened to the women?" He asked.

"What?" T-Dog asked.

"What happened to the women?" Daryl asked. "Men got transferred out. What happened to the women?"

"Had babies," T-Dog said. "What you think happens when they get pregnant."

Daryl didn't mean to make the sound that he made, but it slipped out before he could control himself. It was an exasperated sigh followed by a little of a growl.

"Could some damn body just tell me something without me having to ask ten thousand questions?" Daryl growled at T-Dog. "You already said it don't matter. It don't mean a damn thing. Why don't you just tell me what the hell happened and then I don't gotta keep bugging you with questions?"

T-Dog was quiet, but then he laughed ironically about the situation. There was a hiss somewhere around them, suggesting that they be quiet, and T-Dog responded to that by suggesting that whoever it was shut and go to sleep because they weren't being bothered. Then he decided to respond to Daryl.

"Listen," he said, "I don't know what you want me to tell you. They got knocked up. It was a big deal. That kinda thing weren't supposed to happen around here. Wilds ain't fit to have kids and even if we're docile—we're in prison. We're locked up for our own safety. People gonna be having and raising kids, it's people out there—people that don't run the chance of going wild again. They asked everybody questions and focused on the ones that were suspected to be involved. Cleared out the men that were found guilty of the whole thing and they separated everybody out so that we could see that being coed—being social even? That's a privilege. It ain't a right. The women—they were in trouble. They might've gotten pregnant, but they were just as guilty as the men transferred out were. The women got flags for their conduct and they got flags for if they didn't tell what was found to be the truth about the situation."

"So they tamed them again?" Daryl asked.

A hum in the affirmative.

"Even though they were knocked up?" Daryl asked.

"Held the flags over," T-Dog said. "Added them up. Counted them up. It didn't matter anyway."

"What you mean it didn't matter?" Daryl asked. "Taming some damn body always matters—if they don't have some special way of doing it here."

"Didn't matter because the women went wild again anyway," T-Dog said, his voice carrying the weight of his emotions now that he was tiring with telling this story. "They moved them, too. Took them to the other part of the prison I guess?"

"Went full wild?" Daryl asked. "All the way undone?"

They slipped. They all slipped. Every now and again the wild animal inside of them came out. They couldn't help it. They couldn't fully control it. The animal within them that had been their constant companion when they were out there? It just came back to the surface. The instinct that had led them to kill. To hunt. To do—things that some of them never wanted to talk about again. That instinct was there. They were all wild, deep inside. Once they'd made the change? Maybe the government was right. It could never be undone. They could never be truly tame. They could be docile. They could be as close as possible to it, but they needed to be watched. They needed to be protected from themselves and from each other. They needed to be retamed, every now and again, to keep the beast at bay.

But to go full wild again? Daryl had never known it to happen to anyone once they'd been declared docile. Not if they weren't just pretending in the first place. And if they were just pretending? It usually didn't take too long to figure out it was an act.

T-Dog sat up in his bed and shifted around. Daryl sat up on his elbow to try to observe what was happening. T-Dog leaned as close to Daryl as he could and dropped his voice again.

"They took the babies away," he said. "As soon as they were born. People all over this place heard it every time it happened. You ever seen a woman trying to get to her kid?"

Daryl hummed in the negative. He hadn't. Even out there, even in the turn? The women he'd seen with children were usually already mourning them. Everyone he came across, even if she was losing her mind, was already either clutching the lifeless body of her child or was trying to negotiate with whatever god she prayed to that the animated dead she clutched would somehow come back to its senses.

He'd seen what happened to women when they lost their children—but not when they were taken away alive.

"They're the wildest animals you've ever seen," T-Dog said. "I don't know if they took them to training or what they did with them, but most of them? I believe they'd have had to beat them half to death to calm them down."

"So they took all of them outta here?" Daryl asked.

"At least—most," T-Dog said. He shifted around again, this time moving to sit with his back against the wall that lined one side of their beds and petitioned off the large space. "I guess a couple held onto their senses, but most didn't."

"What'd they do with the kids?" Daryl asked.

"Who knows," T-Dog said. "Nobody knows. They don't tell you that. Take them wherever they took the wild kids that were captured? Take them outta here and give them to some parents that could raise them as people? Good people? Tame people? They don't tell you that. Don't tell anybody that."

"They took captured kids too?" Daryl asked.

"What'd you think happened to them?" T-Dog asked. "They didn't leave them in the wild. And you don't see any of them here. Some of them had to survive."


	11. Chapter 11

**AN: Here we are, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

After breakfast was, more than likely, not the time to have the conversation that Daryl wanted to have. He couldn't sit on it any longer, though. He'd been thinking about it all night, and the longer he thought about it, the more that he wanted to know.

But he wasn't just going to ask. He wasn't just going to demand more information without offering some of his own—even if he felt he had much less to offer than probably every other person at Region Thirty Three. So, rather than open with his questions, he ate breakfast in amiable silence with the women that he was accustomed to dining with and then he left the table with Carol followed her through the yard while she decided where she might want to spend her leisure time for the morning.

It was cooler today. Soon they'd have to issue them something a little more substantial than the gray jumpsuits they wore. Soon, they'd need something with sleeves if they were going to be outside. Especially those who were more cold natured than Daryl. He'd been used to going without jackets and coats—even when he might have needed them.

But that wasn't really what people did. They wore extra clothes when they were cold.

"I was never married," Daryl said as he followed Carol. She glanced back over her shoulder at him. She didn't say anything. That was the closest she came to admitting that she even heard him. "Never," he repeated. "I don't know...I think I thought about it, but I didn't really think about it with nobody in particular. I just thought about it. Like you might think about anything."

Nothing. It got absolutely nothing. She was being quiet today. He couldn't remember for certain, but he was almost positive that she hadn't said a word over breakfast. No one, really, had said anything over breakfast. Now he wondered if he'd really just put his foot into it so deeply that nobody was really speaking to him. They were holding a group vow of silence against him.

He cleared his throat and settled down against the fence that she chose to put her back against. It was a chain link fence that separated their yard from another part of the facility—likely the part of it where the wilds were being kept always contained and locked up. It was for their own safety.

"I mean—before it all happened? I dated a couple of women," Daryl continued. "One or two. If you can call it dating. Nothing special really. Probably wasn't dating."

Carol nodded her head, looking ahead of her. Daryl followed her line of vision, but there was nothing there of particular interest, just other people milling about and finding ways to pass the time. Lisette was laughing about something that Dori had to say and a short distance from that Andrea was involved in a game of catch with three other inmates—but there was nothing much to see.

"But you dated," Daryl said, finally. "You were married?"

Carol looked at him. Her expression, soft and somewhat pleased with watching the comings and goings of others, went hard and concerned for a moment. She furrowed her brow at him. The crease between her brows only softened slightly before she nodded and then sighed.

"Yeah," she said. "I was married. Not really that long. Not—if we're talking about marriages that last half a century. But I was married too long to him."

Daryl swallowed.

He wanted to ask for more. He wanted to ask about her husband. He wanted to ask why her voice sounded the way that it did when she spoke about it. He didn't feel, though, that he could come right out and ask that. As she would tell him, that was a story for another time. It was her story. She could share it or she could keep it, but it was only to be shared when she decided.

But Daryl could come up with a few suspicions of his own.

"Were you married at the turn?" He asked, choosing to continue speaking but to steer away from pressing her for details that she might not want to share about the particulars of her marriage.

Carol nodded.

"I was," she said, almost mournfully. Daryl didn't feel, though, that she was mourning the husband's passing. She was upset that there had ever been a husband. "When it happened? We—went together. Like the news told us too. There was supposed to be a safe zone. It was going to be about thirty miles outside of Atlanta, Georgia."

Daryl swallowed again.

"That's where you're from?" He asked.

Carol shook her head.

"I'm from North Carolina," she said. "But—my husband, Ed, and I lived in Atlanta."

"He was from Atlanta?" Daryl asked.

Carol laughed to herself.

"He was from North Carolina too," Carol said. "We both were. Same small town. A year after we got married? He wanted to move to Atlanta."

She fell silent for a moment, looking out in front of her like she was seeing something as it played before her eyes. Daryl didn't say anything to interrupt whatever she might be thinking of. His silence paid off because, instead of getting up and excusing herself as she often would, Carol continued speaking when she'd finished seeing whatever it was her mind was giving her to look at.

"He said—he said we were moving there for a job," Carol said. "It was supposed to be better than what he had. Really? It was about the same. Maybe he made a hundred dollars more a month. He just wanted to move because—as he said—there were less people minding your business in a town where nobody knew you."

She shrugged.

"Maybe I liked it that way too," she said. "Less people—minding my business. Less people...thinking about what they thought you'd be and comparing it to what you turned out to be."

"What'd you turn out to be?" Daryl asked.

Carol looked at him. She stared at him. The intensity for a moment was so uncomfortable that Daryl shifted away from her just a bit. His movement broke the stare.

"Wild," Carol said. "I became wild. So—so—wild."

Daryl swallowed.

"Before you was wild," he clarified. He knew, though, that she'd understood what he meant. He also knew that jumping straight to the after effects of the turn was her way of saying that she wasn't going to answer the questions that he was asking. He waited a moment in her silence to be sure and then he decided to offer her something more. "We all turned wild," Daryl said. "Or else we wouldn't be here. I—I weren't much of nothing before that, though. Hell, half the things they tell me separate us from the people? The tame people? I'm not too sure I didn't just start this life wild and go downhill."

Carol let out a quick, sharp laugh. It was a genuine laugh. It wiped away the harsh mask of concern that she'd been wearing over her features.

"You weren't wild before," Carol said. She shook her head at him. "You're not wild now. You were never wild."

She looked around, a quick check on their privacy, and then she lowered her voice.

"None of us were," Carol said. "None of us ever were. We're people. Just the same as anyone else."

"We done things," Daryl said.

"You think the guards didn't?" Carol said, this time furrowing her brow for a different reason. "You think—the guards didn't do the same things we all did? You think the supervisors that come down? The doctors we see? You don't think they had to do the same things that we did?"

Daryl sat there, quiet for a moment, and thought about it. Sure, he'd wondered these things before. He thought he remembered, in the beginning and when he'd first been captured, raising that point. He also thought he remembered earning himself extra days in taming just for even suspecting that maybe the experience that belonged to him as something barely more than an animal was something that was universal.

"It was different," Daryl said. "Some people didn't get as deep in it. Some people didn't do the same things. They got out. They got picked up and saved before it was too late. They looked for help and they didn't ignore the surrender notices."

"Did you ever actually see one of those notices?" Carol asked.

Daryl hesitated a moment and then he shook his head.

"No," he said. "No," he repeated. "We were—by that time? We were—in Virginia? I think. We started in Louisiana. I'm not from there. But that's where I was at the turn. There looking at some kinda jobs. Thinking about a new start. The one we got weren't the one we were planning on. We made it to Georgia, though. Looking for some safe zone. Maybe the one you were heading toward. Near Atlanta. Outside of it, they said on the news. Was gonna be some huge place. Everything you needed. We got lost. Got our asses lost in the damn wilderness. Didn't never see a surrender notice."

Carol nodded her head slowly. It wasn't that she was agreeing with him. She was listening to him and she was thinking about her own story.

"If you'd seen it," Carol said. "Would you have gone? Would you have surrendered?"

Daryl looked around now, growing a little uncomfortable because he worried that this kind of conversation would be sure to get them in trouble.

"I wanna say yes," Daryl said. "But—I think I was too wild then. I don't think..."

He hesitated. There was no reason in the world not to say Merle's name yet, but it was something that Daryl couldn't bring himself to do very often. He hadn't really said his name since the capture. If he didn't say his name, it was easier to keep his distance.

Maybe that's why T-Dog disliked it so much when Daryl asked about Jacqui by name.

"I don't think my brother and me would've turned ourselves in," Daryl said. "I don't think we'd have trusted it."

Carol nodded.

"I saw one," she admitted. "I saw it. I—I tore it down off the tree it was nailed to. I read it. I held it in my hand. But I couldn't trust it. I didn't trust it. How was I going to? The government—was gone for all those years? While I was—out there? Being what they tell me is wild? I couldn't trust it. I couldn't take that chance."

As she'd spoken, she'd moved closer to Daryl. She'd lowered her voice. Her eyes had gone wide with something akin to fear or panic—for a moment she was back there. For a moment she was remembering being captured. She was reliving some of it. Her voice was so low that it was barely more than air that she was blowing out in the words—and that air blew warm against Daryl's face and reminded him, for the first time in a long time, that they were both still alive. It was the closest contact that he'd had with anyone who wasn't a correctional officer in more years than he could count.

He closed his eyes against it for a moment—surprised that something so simple, something that might have made him wish she would back away from him in another time and place, was something that very nearly choked him because he hadn't realized how much he wanted it.

If he turned his face toward her? Instead of looking just to the side of her and somewhat in front of him as he was now? There would be so little distance between them that...

He didn't even want to think about it. He already knew that it wasn't allowed here. The thoughts weren't allowed her either. The guards could probably read their minds. Especially after everything that had happened with scandal.

Suddenly Daryl remembered the scandal, and he remember what T-Dog had said to him—he remembered what had brought him to start this conversation in the first place.

He turned toward Carol and she backed away, breaking the proximity between them. Daryl actually felt the cold against his skin again, when she moved, and it made him realize how truly close they'd been for just a moment.

"You weren't out there alone," Daryl said. "Was it—just you and your husband? Who were you out there with?"

He dared to ask it, and he saw her eyes widen with the question, but he was patient enough to wait if that's what she needed—patience he was learning.


	12. Chapter 12

**AN: Here we are, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Carol's response to Daryl's question was exactly what he expected. She stood up. She started like she was going to walk off—like she always did. She was going to leave him there, question unanswered, and she was going to walk away. She'd hide under saying that she had something to do, but Daryl knew that she didn't have anything to do. None of them did. Being able to do things? Being able to fill idle time with things? That was something that had been taken from them. They'd lost that privilege, if it could be called that.

This time, though, when she got to her feet, Daryl didn't want to let her just walk away and leave it all unspoken about. He didn't want to be left, sitting in the dirt, wondering how he might have talked to her about her life in a way that would have kept her there and kept her carrying on a conversation that didn't end abruptly.

It wasn't about the question anymore. It wasn't about the curiosity that he felt about the lives of the people who surrounded him. It was about not wanting to simply be dismissed and ignored.

As soon as Carol hit her feet, and before she'd taken three determined steps away from him, Daryl took to his feet. He doubled his steps and reached her in no time. He reached out, caught her wrist, and pulled it to keep her from going forward even another foot. As soon as he realized that he was touching her—forbidden under most circumstances at Region Thirty Three—Daryl dropped her wrist. Luckily no guard had seen the transgression, though, and it was enough to get Carol's attention.

She stopped her forward progress and turned back to face him. Her face was screwed up in concern again. The emotion seemed to be her go to emotion for all things that weren't entirely pleasant.

"Why do you care?" Carol asked.

Daryl felt himself start. It was the first time that he had to really think about that. He'd asked himself that same question more than once since he'd arrived at the facility, but until now he hadn't bothered to give himself an answer. He'd walked away from himself as surely as the others had walked away from him. This was the first time that he had to find an answer—for himself and for Carol—because this was a game of quid pro quo and he couldn't demand responses from her if he wasn't willing to give them in return.

"Because—I'm human," Daryl said.

He swallowed at the strange taste of the words in his mouth. For so long he'd been taught that he wasn't human or, at the very least, that he wasn't entirely human. Carol had given him permission to think of himself as a human, but still it was strange to do so when he'd tried to convince his mind that it wasn't true.

"I'm human," he repeated, the words barely coming out. "And—you are too. Every damn one of us got here somehow. We got here someway. Did shit. Saw shit. Lived through it. I been alone a long damn time—but I care what the hell you went through to get here."

He shrugged when he finished speaking. The words didn't sound like a satisfactory answer to his own ears, but they were all that he had at the moment. It was a question that he hadn't answered for himself, and he didn't have time to really think about it, so the best he had to offer was a knee jerk response.

"I just do," he added, finishing it up.

Carol sighed deeply enough that her chest visibly rose and fell. The look on her face didn't leave. It changed, slightly, but it almost went to something like desperation. She looked around her, tension visible in her movements, and Daryl was reminded of the old adage that people could become "caged". They were all caged now, but Carol looked it at the moment.

"I didn't mean to upset you," Daryl offered quietly. He almost wished, at the moment, that he could take it back. He could take the question back. He could take back the insistence that she answer it. "You don't gotta tell me," he added, shaking his head at her when he was sure that he had her attention for another minute.

Carol looked around again and Daryl thought that she looked like she relaxed a little. Being told that she didn't have to answer it, obviously, was enough to make her feel a little better about it.

"I don't want to talk about it here," she said.

Daryl nodded.

"We don't go nowhere else to go," he said, hating to be the bearer of bad news.

"I want—I want to play Monopoly," Carol said. She nodded her head at him slowly and raised her eyebrows like she was trying to silently tell him to copy her. He started to nod his head before the words even sunk in for him. He smiled to himself and then wiped it away as quickly as he could.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah," he repeated when she continued to nod her head at him. "We'll—play some monopoly. Good game."

She looked a great deal more relaxed. A smile almost formed on her lips. This time, when she turned to walk away, she looked back over her shoulder at Daryl to be sure that he was following. He closed the one step difference between them and caught up with her to walk beside her toward the building where they could go to the Rec room and play Monopoly.

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Carol shifted her position at least twenty times in the first three minutes of their time in the dimly lit room that had one naked bulb for lighting. Daryl put himself in charge of setting up the game and making it appear that they were actually playing it, and then he put himself in charge of opening the blinds on the windows. Whatever she was dealing with at the moment, he figured, was enough that she didn't need to think about setting a scene for Barney Fife when he made his rounds.

When he felt like things were set, Daryl returned to the chair across the table from Carol and waited the moment or so that it took for approaching footsteps to reach the door. He waved sarcastically at the officer that stuck his head in the door and waited until the man walked off to lean back in his chair and give Carol whatever time and space she needed. They were working on three minute intervals to talk, but from what Daryl could tell their time was really unlimited.

Finally, Carol settled her elbow on the table and settled her face in her hand. To keep from looking at him at the moment, she took some of the little houses and began to set up a city full of row houses in the middle of the board.

"My husband died before we made it to the safe zone," Carol said. "I—uh—we never made it there. We were caught on the highway, outside of Atlanta, when the planes were flying over."

Daryl hummed and Carol looked at him, really focusing on him with her eyes for a moment.

"You saw them?" She asked.

"Planes?" Daryl asked. She nodded gently. "Yeah," he said. "Everybody did. Planes. Helicopters. Early days? They were—trying to get things under control."

Carol shook her head, her face still resting on her hand. She sighed.

"They were killing people," Carol said.

Daryl sat forward, uncomfortable with her words.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Daryl asked. "We had a radio. We were listening to the news until the signal went out. They was—relocating people. Trying to stop the spread."

"They were killing people," Carol repeated. "They bombled Atlanta. The planes were dropping bombs or explosives or something."

She closed her eyes.

"The screaming—we could hear it on the highway," Carol said.

Daryl sat there, shaking his head. He couldn't believe that she was telling the truth, even if he knew that she really stood to gain nothing from lying.

She continued to nod hers, now bringing her eyes back to the little houses that she went thumping around with her fingertip.

"They asked me. When they captured me? If I saw the planes," Carol said.

Daryl hummed. They'd asked him to. He'd told them that he had. After all, he assumed that most people had seen them flying around. It seemed like for at least a week the skies had been full of choppers and planes.

"I told them I saw them," Carol said. "But—I didn't tell them what I saw."

"Understandable," Daryl said.

He pursed his lips and brought his finger to it to gesture that she should be quiet. Immediately he put on a show of rolling the dice and Carol followed his lead by picking up some of the cards and holding them in her hands like she was studying properties that she owned or might be interested in acquiring. They waited until the officer had made his check and his footsteps were fading again before Carol spoke once more.

"I guess it was another reason that I couldn't trust the Surrender Notices," Carol said. "It just felt like—cleaning up what they didn't get before."

Daryl didn't know what to say. He was hearing her words, but honestly he wasn't sure how he felt about them. Thinking about it seemed so foreign that he was almost driven to think of it as some kind of movie or fictional depiction of what might happen.

"Maybe they was just—clearing out the infected? Clearing out the dead?" Daryl offered.

"The dead don't scream," Carol said coolly.

Daryl felt a shiver start at the base of his spine and run all the way up.

"Your husband died then?" Daryl asked.

Carol shook her head and hummed.

"We fled the highway," Carol said. "We went with a small bunch of people. We ran to get away from what was happening. We were afraid that—if they bombed the city we were next. The traffic jam or whatever? We thought maybe they stopped us to have us there for easier—access? I guess."

Daryl nodded at her to let her know that she should continue when she glanced at him. She'd abandoned torturing the little houses and now she was toying with the card, turning it over and over in her fingers, while she thought about her story.

"We—made our own camp," Carol said. "One night? It got overrun. My husband was—he couldn't get away."

Her voice trailed off a moment and she studied the card in her hand with far more concern that was ever necessary in any game of Monopoly.

"And I didn't help him," Carol said.

Daryl swallowed. He wanted to ask her more about that, but he didn't dare to interrupt her. Not while she was talking. He was going to let her say whatever it was that she wanted to say. He was going to let things go wherever they might. She might be open to more questions later, but for now he was going to let her tell the story that she'd set out to tell him.

"You were alone then?" He said, choosing the question as the most innocent and the least leading that he could think of.

Carol shook her head.

"No," she said. "I wasn't alone. But—that's—I don't want to talk about it."

She looked at him and, for the first time ever, her eyes looked damp. She shook her head at him again.

"I don't want to talk about that," she repeated. "Please?"

Daryl quickly nodded his head, his stomach twisting. He almost spat curse words when he heard the officer approaching again. He wanted to yell at him that they were people and capable of refraining from fucking if left alone for more than five minutes. He wanted to yell at him that what they were talking about—what he felt like she was keeping to herself—wasn't exactly something that stirred up the desire to fuck in either of them. But he didn't say anything. He simply waited for the officer to pass and then he quietly offered the best condolences that he could for the moment.

"You don't gotta," he said. "But—if ya do..."

She nodded at him, seeming to understand the words that he left unsaid.

"I'm sorry," he offered, wishing that he could reach across the table and offer something—anything—that might be more comforting than the hollow and empty words.

"Me too," she said quietly. She looked at him again. Though her eyes were still a little damp, she offered him a smile—like she was trying to soothe him for the hurt he felt over simply imagining what might be hers and what might be the story that she wasn't telling.

Like she could read his mind, she reached her hand across the table and gently touched his. Her hand was soft and warm against his skin. She brushed her thumb, quickly, over his skin before she pulled her away and dropped it into her lap. The whole interaction was so quick that Daryl was left almost wondering if it had really happened or if he'd imagined the whole thing.

When he looked at her, though, her expression was lighter. Her cheeks were a little more blushed than they had been. And once again, she'd developed a strong interest in the cards that told her the merits of various properties on the board that they were almost wholly ignoring.

Daryl cleared his throat, searching to change the subject to something that might be easier for her—something that might be less close to her.

"Michonne and Andrea?" Daryl asked, leaving the rest of the question unasked but remembering that the two women had also left the room in something of a huff before.

Carol looked at him again, her expression not changing from the one that she seemed to have adopted for his benefit. She shook her head gently at him.

"Not my story to tell," she said.


	13. Chapter 13

Here we go, another chapter here.

I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Samirah sat in front of the glass coffee table heaped high with manila folders. These weren't the main files. They were copy files. They were condensed versions of the main files held and they were the only ones that she could check out. They were the only ones that could ever be removed from any location except under specific and direct government orders. The only other time they were ever even so much as touched, as far as Samirah knew, was when they underwent a final inspection before they were destroyed. And they were only destroyed following the _removal_ of a prisoner by the system.

The files held enough, though, for Samirah to look through them and start to get an idea of what she was working with. John Hokes had made the selections, and he'd probably done the best job of it that anyone possibly could.

"How many did you give me?" She asked, staring at the piles.

"Two hundred, like you asked," John said. "Fifty of them are from new arrivals that haven't been transferred yet. Their papers are in, but they haven't been moved. Give them—two months, maybe? Tops? They'll be at Region Thirty Three."

Samirah nodded her head.

"Those are tagged?" She asked.

John nodded, knitting his fingers together.

"Yellow tabs are the ones that haven't been moved," he said. "Everybody else? It's up to date. They're on the property."

Samirah leaned forward and picked up one of the folders. She opened it and read the first few pages that were held in there by metal tabs. When there was something new to add, whoever was in charge of updating the files would take all the pages out, add a new page, and then they'd fold the tabs over again. On the inside cover were a few pages, fastened there by nothing more than a staple, that were frequently changed and updated. Those pages were the "cliff notes" version of each and every inmate.

Their whole lives—everything they knew them to be—were summed up in two pages or less for the cliff notes version. These days? You were really little more than your "pertinent information".

Samirah read through those pages before she flipped through the others. The more detailed section gave a lot more information, but it was still cold and impersonal. The files read like medical records or the findings from science experiments.

"Reported name, number, transfer record," Samirah read out loud to John, even though he'd seen the files far more often than she had. "History. This is new..."

"What?" John asked, shifting around on the couch that he was sitting on and leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

John Hokes was older than Samirah. His wife, Regina, was too. They were first wavers as well. She'd known them since she'd been in the safe zone. They'd rode the whole thing out together. When they'd met, Regina and John hadn't been married. They'd married before they left the safe zone. It was about as romantic a story as anyone had these days.

The three of them had remained friends, even though Samirah's placement in the early days of reestablishing society had sent her in one direction while it had sent John and Regina in another. These days, with the population being as small as it was, at least outside of the prisons, people kept in touch a little better than maybe they once had. When Samirah had started working in her current position, she was pleased to find that John was managing Region Thirty Three. At least, if nothing else, she had the chance to work with someone she found pleasant—even if the job wasn't quite as pleasant.

He couldn't really say much, but Samirah knew that John, too, probably found certain parts of his job distasteful. But they didn't say anything because they were all grateful for everything that had been done for them. The world, after all, was in order because of the power. And it was getting better every day. The unpleasant things? They were necessary growing pains. That was all.

"This section," Samirah said, pointing to it in the folder. She forgot that he wouldn't be able to see, across the table, what her eyes could see from where she sat. He stood and leaned over the table enough to be able to take it in.

"Oh," he mumbled.

"Oh?" She repeated. "Oh what? John—what is this? Progress points? What the hell are— _progress points_?"

John made an uncomfortable sort of sound and took his seat again. He fidgeted a moment, folding and unfolding his hands on his leg.

"It's not as bad as it seems," he said.

"You're skirting the issue," Samirah said.

He shook his head at her.

"It just speeds up the process, Sammi," John said.

"What process?" Samirah asked.

In her gut, she knew the answer. She knew it before she even asked. Scanning her eyes over the bulleted points that were made there told her exactly what she needed to know. She'd been dealing with government documents for years now. She'd seen how things were handled. She knew how they were written. She understood the shorthand that got used so that things that might otherwise be unspeakable appeared as something absolutely insignificant.

But even if she knew it? She wanted to hear John say it. She wanted him to confirm for her what she already believed to be true.

John kept shaking his head at her. He wasn't negating a thing. The action was something of an involuntary twitch that accompanied whatever was going on inside his mind.

"If they start from the bottom every time, Sammi? It takes forever. Sometimes? With the retaming? All it really takes is a quick jolt. They just need a quick reminder of why they're there—what they're there for. Why they're..." He broke off and got up from the couch. Samirah watched him as he walked around his living room like he'd never seen it before. His eyes scanned the paintings on his wall and they scanned across his furniture. He had a large bar that was full of various kinds of alcohol in decorative glass bottles. He took a small glass and selected a liquid to fix himself a drink. While he was doing so, and in the nature of being a good host, he turned around and waved the glass at Samirah to ask her, silently, if she'd like a beverage. She nodded at him and he held up a bottle to ask if that's what she wanted. She didn't know what was in it, but she didn't care either, so she nodded. He poured her a drink too and brought the glass to her. He stood, behind the couch she was seated on, and sipped at the liquid in his own glass before he ever decided to speak again.

"It saves time, Sammi," John said. "It saves us time and it saves them time. It's just—collecting information so that each new officer doesn't have to go through and—find it again."

Samirah tasted the burning liquid in the glass. She still didn't know what it was. Before the turn she'd never been much of a drinker. She'd had some beer. She'd liked the fruit flavored wine coolers that her friends had bought because they made them feel sophisticated. She'd drank cheap wine from the grocery store that might as well have been simply labelled "wine". But she'd never really been a drinker with a sophisticated palette. She still wasn't. She drank, these days, either because it was socially acceptable or because it helped to numb things when the feelings dared to try to come back to the surface after she'd buried them down. It didn't matter what she was drinking—just as long as it got the job done.

"How'd you get the information, John?" Samirah asked.

"Comes with the prisoners," John said. He shook his head at her. "That's not just a Region Thirty Three thing. That's everywhere now. It's standard. We get it with their file."

Samirah swallowed.

"But you collect it too," Samirah said, her words coming out between question and statement. She wanted him to deny it, but she knew that he wouldn't.

"Not personally," he said. "Not—never personally. Not since I was promoted."

Samirah closed her eyes. She closed them to shut it out entirely. She closed them because she didn't want to think less of John. She wanted to think of him as the man that she knew him to be. She wanted to think of him as the man that had been a real father figure to her in a time that she'd been terrified because there was no one left for her. She wanted to think of him as a man who offered hugs and words of encouragement and promises that everything would be OK, even if everyone knew it wouldn't be, because she couldn't think of him as the man in the small rooms that she'd toured when she'd gotten her most current position. She couldn't think of John Hokes as that man. Even if she knew he was only that man in the name of duty.

"It's torture," Samirah said quietly.

"The progress points cut down on that," John said. He drank more from his glass. "They do. They significantly cut down on it. There's no—going back through it all. And if anything needs to be added? It's updated. It cuts down on it even less. Things are really changing, Sammi. People spend less time than ever in retaming. The progress points help with that."

"It's still torture," Samirah asserted. "It's just—going right to the place where it hurts the _most,_ John."

She could see it on his face. He knew that she was right.

"It's standard," John said blankly.

 _It's standard. It's government mandated. The one true power has decided that it's the best way to go and that means that it is the only way to go. There's no more reason to discuss it. It's better not to discuss it. Just table it, Samirah. Nobody knows if the walls have ears._

He didn't have to say it, Samirah could almost hear what his eyes were trying to say to her. It didn't matter anyway. He didn't have to like it, but it was part of his job. It was part of the process. It would be done, whether or not he liked it, and speaking out against it would just land them both in a place that they didn't want to be.

Samirah looked back at the file and took a moment to get control of her breathing. She focused on it, counting out the amount of time that she spent on the exhale and the inhale of each one. It was a quick and easy way to steady her feelings and she'd learned it early on from the physician that had treated her when she'd first been brought out of the camp.

Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn't.

Samirah closed the folder and moved it back to the pile on the table. She'd have to go through and she'd have to start making decisions. She knew that. That's what she was here for. She'd tour the various facilities, spend a little time with John and Regina, and she'd make the moves to put everything into place and begin the project.

"Do you have the supplementary information I asked for?" Regina asked. "In the email?"

John hummed and walked back around to the couch he'd been sitting on earlier.

"No," he said. "You said you needed it, but you didn't say who you needed it for. Is it just for the—how many are we looking at?"

"Current space is for eighty," Samirah said. "But—give it time and there's room for more. But the supplemental information? I was expecting it to make a decision on all of them but—since it isn't here? I'll need it on at least the first—one hundred and fifty I choose?"

"When can you have me a list?" John asked.

Samirah groaned to herself.

"If I'm not rude by taking the private time?" She said, indicating that she'd be isolating herself during the visit—something John was already aware of even if she didn't say it. He shook his head at her and hummed in the negative.

"Tomorrow," Samirah said. "The next day."

"I'll make some calls tonight," John said. "As soon as you give me the list? I'll have a team already ready to go."

Samirah nodded and quietly thanked him before she drank the burning liquid again. It was for sipping, she was sure of that, but she was almost overtaken with the desire to drink it down in large gulps like she did the wine that arrived to her house in large glass jugs as a gift—a job perk of sorts.

"Eighty, huh? I thought it would be more than that," John mused out loud.

Samirah hummed.

"There's room for more," Samirah said. "But eighty to start."

"Room to grow," John said. "Always room to grow."

Samirah hummed and John got up and took her glass from her hand. He immediately carried it back to the bar to start refilling it.

"I know that you're probably not in the mood," he said. "But—some good news might help."

"Good news would be greatly appreciated," Samirah said, laughing to herself with some amusement.

"We heard about the adoption," John said.

Samirah smiled to herself. John and Regina had wanted children desperately. Regina wasn't healthy enough, though, to carry them to term—or at least that's what they feared, Samirah wasn't sure of the details. They'd been on the list to adopt for some time, but if it was a slow process before, it was an even slower process now. Even Samirah, herself, had been on the list for over a year in the hope that some years down the line—when she was actually ready to start thinking of such a thing and assuming she never found the time to actually date- she might actually get her chance.

"Congratulations are in order?" Samirah asked.

John smiled.

"Don't say anything," he said. "I want Regina to surprise you. She hasn't had anyone to tell. But—it looks like we're finally getting our chance."

Maybe there were good things, after all, to come from the government. They had, as they were so often reminded, so much to be grateful for. So very, very much.


	14. Chapter 14

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **Warnings for violence.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Daryl wanted their conversation to go on longer. If he'd been allowed to, he might have spent the remainder of his day in the quiet little room with Carol, pretending every three minutes to be locked in a game that neither of them had the slightest bit of interest in playing. But he wasn't allowed to do that. Neither of them were. In fact, they'd spent very little time there before the officer that passed by every three minutes stopped in to tell them that they had to leave.

There was a disturbance and they were under lockdown. Everyone would be returning to their bunks where they would wait, just as they did any time there was something like this, until whoever their supreme captor was decided that they should be free to roam about again.

Silence fell over Region Thirty Three as it had once before. Allowed out of his bunk only to go to the bathroom—almost always under guard—and to eat in silence in the cafeteria, Daryl kept his head down. He didn't know what had caused the disturbance, but it didn't take more than the first meal to know that at least one of their own little circle had been involved. It appeared that Andrea, for whatever reason, had finally earned herself the third flag that they'd been threatening her with. Now it was she that was in the lineup of bound inmates, heads down, that ate separate from the rest. And now it was Michonne that wore the overall concerned and unpleasant countenance that Daryl had once thought was something wholly belonging to Andrea's personality.

It took three days for the silence to be lifted. However, even though they were told the silence wasn't being enforced, most people guarded it anyway. Something was going on. Daryl didn't know what, but he could sense that there was something out of the ordinary happening around them. The guards were on edge, for lack of a better way of explaining things, and even with the silence they'd still found reasons to flag people left and right. Daryl wasn't sure, but he was almost positive that one person got flagged because they put their fork on the wrong side of their plate. He knew, for a fact, that one of the inmates was flagged because she scuffed her foot on the floor and jerked enough that she dropped her cup off her tray and created a mess.

Something was going on, and whatever it was? Every inmate had to be on pins and needles lest they be the next to come back bound and looking like they barely had the strength to even carry their own shackles.

On the fifth day of self-imposed silence, the recently tamed inmates were brought back into the space and were lined up at the front. Daryl watched as they released each of them and pushed them forward to get a tray and return to their spots. He watched as, one by one, they did what they were told. Many of them returned to the empty tables set aside for them, but a few slowly went toward their more regular spots.

Andrea, among them, started toward them and Daryl watched her the same as he'd watched those that were walking before her. Nothing about her seemed like it had just days before, but that was something they were all accustomed to. None of them were the same as they were. They were always changing. And if something in them rose up? It was taken care of immediately.

Daryl meant to stay in his seat with the others. He meant to simply track her forward progress with his eyes and be there to welcome her back to the table. He never meant to move from where he was already sitting—but sometimes things happen when you don't even mean for them to happen.

Andrea's step faltered on her way down the aisle and Carol—closest to the aisle and closest to Andrea—got to her feet and immediately went toward the woman. Carol's movement, for whatever reason, brought Daryl to his feet. He imagined, that many others might have followed suit, but he didn't really notice them.

Andrea dropped her tray and gave into the faltered step, going down to her knees despite Carol's efforts to keep just a thing from happening. Daryl heard one of the guards call out a warning.

"8294F, back to your seat!" He barked.

"She's hurt," Carol protested.

"This is your last warning," the same guard called—one unknown by name to Daryl but who commonly favored keeping with the female population. It was Carol's last warning when it was only the second. The words bristled in Daryl and he reached the two of them, ignoring that now his number was scrambled into the mix of warning and flags.

In a matter of moments, they were surrounded for causing a disturbance. There was confusion of guards and voices and noises. Daryl had never felt good at processing things when a lot was going on at once, and he didn't feel any better at handling it now. It was too much. It was a sensory overload. It didn't help that Carol was arguing back with the guard, the sound ringing in Daryl's ear, and he was caught between her and Andrea, trying to heave the blonde back to her feet.

But when he did start to filter things out, and get control of himself despite the chaos, what he heard made something inside him snap.

"8294F—two flags," the now irate officer bellowed. "Three if you don't sit now!"

Carol backed away from Daryl more out of shock than anything else. To go from warning to two flags was a jump for anyone.

"LC456F—flag!" The officer said.

"What the hell are you flagging her for?!" Daryl spat without meaning to. "What the hell are you flagging anybody for?! She can't even stay on her feet! You need to take her to the damn hospital where the hell you put her!"

"Inmate..." the officer barked, red faced to the point it looked like the blood vessel in his forehead might pop, but he stopped. He didn't know who Daryl was. Another officer called out Daryl's number and the red-faced officer repeated it. "6245—flag!" He finished.

Daryl sucked his teeth and got an arm under Andrea who was, though he was ignoring her, trying to insist that she was fine, that she was sorry, and that he should leave her be. He didn't listen. He was, at the very least, going to get her through the crowd of people and to a chair where she could sit like a human being.

After all—they were humans. They weren't meant to wallow around on the floor with injuries inflicted in the name of their own good.

Maybe that's what had snapped inside him—maybe it was Carol's words that had snapped inside him. Whatever it was, it was done now. As done as anything else had been. There was no turning back.

"Improper conduct, inmate!" The officer continued to bellow at Daryl. "LC456F—6245—improper conduct!"

"I'm helping her, not fucking her," Daryl commented, loudly enough that it gained a collective sound from the surrounding inmates.

"Flags to you both, LC456F, 6245," the officer said.

Deciding he was damned anyway, at this point, Daryl pushed on and got Andrea to a seat. The blood was drained out of her face to the point that she looked like she might go over again, but this time not just to her knees. Daryl was pretty sure that his face was the same cherry red color of the officer who was having the worst day of his life because his so-called wild wards understood better than he did what common human decency was.

So that was when Daryl sealed his fate for the day. Leaving Andrea in the care of Michonne—who was collecting flags from the moment she moved to help her—Daryl stepped forward and toward the officer.

"No," he said. "I'm Daryl! That's Andrea. And that's Michonne. And right there?" He gestured toward Carol who was just behind him and somewhat slack jawed. "That's Carol. We've got names! You're supposed to be taking care of us? You're supposed to be doing what the hell is good for us? You don't have the damn decency to take this woman to the clinic where you shoulda taken her!"

"Daryl," Carol said, putting her hand on Daryl's shoulder to try to pull him back. "Daryl—don't—Daryl...stop..." she stammered.

But officer pissed-at-the-world wasn't hearing it now.

"Flag 8294F—improper conduct!" He barked. "Take her..."

And when they moved to do so, without waiting to hear his own sentence, Daryl moved to try to get himself between the officers and Carol. He managed, for a moment, to hold them back—though it really wasn't going to do anything. He was outnumbered. He was overpowered, and outnumbered, and there was nothing that he could do. He put his body between her and them, felt her fingers curl into his shoulders as she braced for whatever might happen with the intense heat of the moment—a moment caused, at least in Daryl's mind, just because someone was feeling itchy to punish and to show his dominance—and he shoved one of the officers away from the both of them before two more wrestled him to the ground.

His breath was knocked out of him as he hit the ground, a knee immediately going into his back and putting an unnecessary amount of pressure on his kidney, and he turned his head just in time to see another officer manhandling Carol unnecessarily as he led her away.

Now, if it had been loud before, the din around them was incredible. Daryl closed his eyes, went limp, and accepted what they might do to him. Despite the fact that he very nearly went limp and allowed them to put the handcuffs on him, he accepted the few open-palmed blows to the back of the head that they were determined to give him. He accepted them wrestling him to his feet instead of letting him gain them like he would have if given the time, and he accepted being led out.

But he didn't put his head down. He didn't duck it and he didn't cower at them or their threatened punishment.

What they didn't know was that—even though he hated it? He could handle anything that they could do to him. And he knew, a lesson he learned before he'd even been tagged and declared wild, how to keep from giving them the satisfaction of seeing him beg them to stop. He wouldn't beg. They'd stop because they had to—whether that was because they deemed it enough or because they killed him—but he wouldn't beg them.

When he was passed off to the officer that was waiting to take him to taming, Daryl didn't say anything. He continued walking, allowing himself to be directed. He didn't fight the officer—one who actually looked forlorn about his job—and instead he simply went where he was told to go. Out of the back of the building, out where he'd never been before, Daryl walked toward another building. That's where they were going. That's where they "re-tamed" those that had simply come undone.

Daryl had come undone.

He looked at the dirt ahead of him and wondered which of the scuffed prints belonged to Carol. He didn't know when he'd see her again, or what she'd be like when he saw her, but in his mind he whispered a silent "good luck" to her as he trampled over her left behind steps.

"You should've just sat down and kept your mouth shut," the officer guiding Daryl said. There was no bite to his tone. He was simply stating his opinion. Maybe it was even out of concern.

"Couldn't do that," Daryl responded.

"Wild ones never can," the officer said. "Not even the supposedly domesticated ones."

"That's where you're wrong," Daryl said, keeping his feet moving ever toward the building even as they exchanged words. "We're not wild."

"Wild enough to buck authority that's trying to keep you in line," the officer said, a little more offense to his voice this time.

"Check her out," Daryl said. "Possibly bleeding internally. Could have broken ribs—punctured lung? Anything really. If it's being wild to help? Then..."

Daryl stopped speaking and chuckled to himself, remembering suddenly something that Andrea herself was somewhat known for doing in some situations when she felt most degraded. When, in response to his overheard humor, the officer shoved him forward as a way of shaking it out of him, Daryl opened his mouth and issued forth the same yip and howl that he'd heard her make.

"Fucking animals," the officer said, anger and frustration seeping into his voice now. It only served to further Daryl's humor at the moment—misplaced as it may be considering their nearing of the building.

"Just human," Daryl said, not breaking his stride in the least.


	15. Chapter 15

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

It was torture, plain and simple. It was always the same. Every time Daryl had experienced it, and every time he'd heard about it, it was torture. They could call it taming if they wanted to. They could say that it reminded them all of their humanity—something they seemed to so easily forget—but brought to the light? It would be called torture.

It wasn't taming. It was breaking. It was breaking through any means necessary. All's fair in love and war—and in re-humanizing the population.

The building they were in was dark. Daryl hadn't paid enough attention to it outside to know if it had windows or not. He tried, a few times and to distract himself, to bring the image of it to his mind as he'd walked closer to it so that he could recall if there were windows, but he'd never been able to focus on it. The only place his mind had voluntarily gone, when he'd struggled so hard to take it back to those moments, was to the sight of Carol's footprints in the dirt just ahead of him.

She was in here, somewhere, and they were doing to her what they were doing to him—just a little differently, he supposed.

It didn't matter. If there were windows, or if there ever had been, they'd been boarded up now to make it dark. It wasn't for the ambience of the place. It was only to make it neither night nor day. Nobody knew how long they'd been in the building. Nobody knew how long they'd stay. They had no choice but to believe the authority figures that told them that they'd stay here forever—if that was what it took.

Daryl sat in a hard plastic chair, alone, in the room where they'd left him and stared at nothing. Even the ground between his feet wasn't clear to his vision.

By now? He was pretty sure that both his eyes might very well be blacked. At least the right one was. He could feel it swelling. Swallowing wasn't as easy as it had been when he'd come through the doors.

Around him? Distant either because of actual distance or because of the fuzziness of his mind, he could hear the noises of others. The other wilds, or semi-wilds, or dociles come undone, or whatever they wanted to call them, were screaming. Some were crying. Some of the sounds were, ironically, anything but human.

They were humans. Carol had said so herself and, the more he thought about it, the more Daryl believed it to be true. But humans were animals too. Hurt, tortured, and suffering just as much from their thoughts as they were their physical injuries, they cried out like animals.

The place smelled horrible. It smelled of piss and shit. Daryl was only giving partial credit for that to the fact that there was a "waste bucket" in the corner of the room that he was in earlier—which meant there had to be more—and the fact that there wasn't one in here. Just like an animal, just like they expected, Daryl had pissed in the corner. He couldn't be the only one that had relieved himself to keep his bladder from exploding or causing him more injury. It smelled of sweat and had the musky smell of too many people giving in, over and over, to their feelings of fight or flight. It smelled of vomit—but of course all the other smells gave over to that sometimes. And then, faintly, it had the somewhat metallic smell of fresh blood and the odd and occasional whiff of some kind of cleaning product that was failing at its job to wipe away all the other smells.

Daryl laughed to himself, alone in the room, when he thought about the fact that, maybe, they should retame the cleaning supplies because it clearly wasn't doing its job. It was clearly not performing in the way that was necessary for it to be the best product that it could be for the new power.

It was falling short of expectations. And the benevolent power? Whoever he was? He cared nothing about the absurdity of expectations. All he cared about was compliance.

Daryl had to force his mind to go to things like thinking about the ways in which one might torture a bottle of bleach until, broken and crying on the floor—its plastic cracked and its thick cleaning liquid leaking out—it might promise to do better and it might confess its sins of having been _less than_. He had to think about these things because they were the only relief from the other thoughts that he'd been reminded of—thoughts that were meant to keep him awake and keep him writhing in his disappointment with himself.

At Region Thirty Three, they knew everything that he'd ever confessed. They wanted more from him, but there wasn't more to give. They repeated back to him his sins—nearly every one that he'd ever committed—and they wanted more, but they didn't realize that they'd drained him dry. It was as if they thought, no matter how many horrible things they ticked off, there were other things that they could expect. He was a monster, like maybe so many other people, but he wasn't the monster that seemed to haunt their nightmares. He wasn't a monster with a never ending list of horrors. They knew them all. And Daryl had heard them all ticked off to him like numbers from the LottoBall drawing.

 _He had killed his father before all this even began. He hadn't killed him with his hands, of course, but he'd killed him with his mind. He'd spent hours imagining the ways that the old man might die—ways he'd hoped he'd died—and then one night? Daryl had finally won. The old man never came back._

 _He had killed his mother before all this even began. He'd never put his hands on her in an unkind way, but he'd needed too much from her. He'd wanted too much from her. She had nothing to give him. She certainly had nothing more. All of it? Her husband, her boys? All of it had eventually become too much for her. She'd drank to find solace and it was the drinking that had killed her._

 _He had killed so many after the turn that he couldn't count them. He'd killed so many that he'd stopped seeing their faces in his mind, like he once had, because there were too many for his brain to hold. He'd killed them out of fear. He'd killed them for food. He'd killed them on the chance that they might try to kill him. As the whole thing had gone on? As he'd spent more and more time out there—wild—he'd killed so much and so often that it had become second nature to him. He had killed men, and a few women, with the same passing nonchalance as he'd once killed bugs that had the nerve to bite him. That wasn't even counting the scores upon scores of animated corpses that he'd dropped to the ground for their final rest._

 _He'd killed his brother. Though he never saw him die, just the same as his old man, Daryl knew that he killed him. He'd at least left him for dead, and that was basically the same thing in the wild. He'd seen them coming. That morning he was just supposed to be hunting. They were holed up. The place they were staying, a house they'd busted into but nobody was using anyway, was nicer than anything they'd stayed in before the turn. Daryl had gone out hunting just to get something for breakfast—something to end the same old dull routine of eating from the shit ton of baked beans they'd gotten out of the store room of an old and half-fallen in general store—and he'd seen them. He knew they were going to capture him. He knew that he had nothing to do but fight, but he wouldn't win that fight. He didn't have enough ammunition to win it, he certainly didn't have enough arrows, and they'd shoot him before he could stab even two of them. So he'd taken their promises that he wouldn't be hurt—that he'd be taken care of and everything would be fine—and he'd gone with them._

 _But he hadn't given Merle up. He knew he was supposed to trust them, but he didn't. Not really. So he'd never given Merle up. In his taming, though, the first time around—when a day felt like a month—they'd told him that they'd found Merle. They'd told him that Merle wasn't a smart enough man not to put up a fight. They'd told him that Merle was too wild. In fact, he was so wild that he'd killed officers—and he'd gone out in a blaze of glory, so to speak—when they'd finally killed him defending his own little, pathetic Alamo._

 _He might have gone peacefully with Daryl and he might still be alive today. But he hadn't, because he hadn't known what had become of Daryl, and so he'd died for Daryl's silence. Daryl had killed him by leaving him behind._

 _If he would kill everyone who ever meant anything to him, and if he could kill people who didn't mean a thing to him without batting an eye, he truly was the monster that they believed him to be and there truly was a long road back—if he could ever make the trip—to taming him into behaving as a proper human, one who served the benevolent power, should._

"6245?" A voice said, snapping Daryl out of his contemplation. He looked around, but he didn't focus on anything—not even on the man standing in the doorway. Daryl hummed. It was the only sound that his parched throat seemed able to produce at the moment.

The man stepped forward and offered Daryl a cup. Daryl took it, but it felt like his muscles were screaming at the amount of energy needed to do even do that much. He looked at it and smelled it. It was water. He drank it down, greedily. It may come with a price, but right now it was a price that he was willing to pay. He almost wanted to cry—even though he hadn't cried about single thing yet—when the cup was dry.

"Get to your feet, inmate," the officer said, though with a little softer tone than anyone else had used through the day. When Daryl didn't get to his feet immediately, not sure even that he could, the officer spoke again. "6245—on your feet."

Daryl looked at him.

"You got a name?" Daryl asked.

"What?" The officer asked.

"A name?" Daryl repeated. "You got a name?"

"Of course I have a name, inmate," the officer said.

Daryl chuckled to himself.

"Me too," Daryl said. "I got a name. It ain't a real great one or nothing—but it's mine. My mama gave it to me—long ass time ago. It's Daryl."

"I'm not interested in your name," the officer said. "To. Your. Feet."

Daryl swallowed and looked mournfully inside the empty cup. He wished, more than he wished a great deal of things right now, that the cup might magically refill itself. He wished for more water more than he wished for fresh air to breathe that didn't smell like piss and shit and sweat and fear and blood.

"You should be," Daryl said.

"6245..." the officer started, but Daryl cut him off.

"That ain't it, you're gettin' it wrong again," Daryl said, chuckling afterwards. "It's Daryl—it ain't so hard. Just one syllable—or it might be two—hell...I don't know..."

The officer stepped forward then, reaching out hands, and Daryl pushed his body to his feet to keep the man from retaliating against him for his insolence.

"Do I have to bind you?" The man asked.

"I ain't sure you gotta do nothing that you do," Daryl said. "But—I ain't going nowhere. You'd just—shoot me in the back if I run."

Daryl laughed again when the officer didn't respond, but he did walk in the direction that he was gestured to go.

"That why the hell they shot Andrea? At capture? She run? Tried to save her own damn life got shot in the damn back for it? Or you shoot out a knee? How you decide?" Daryl asked.

He felt the hand of the officer on his back as he shoved him forward.

"I can see you need another day in here," the officer commented, this time almost in a conversational tone.

"Or a month," Daryl said. "A year. I was thinkin'—it's so nice here. Might look at buyin' me a plot here."

"Word to the wise, inmate," the officer said, pushing Daryl along as he led him down dark corridors through oddly constructed spaces created for nothing more than this house of horrors, "you might want to consider checking your smart mouth. It won't get you nowhere here—except in deeper shit than you're already in."

"Aye aye," Daryl mumbled. He had a good deal more to say at the moment, but he understood that the officer was truly trying to be kind to him. At least, he was trying to be as kind as his job allowed.

The officer stopped at a place that was lines with true "cells". It was probably constructed with Frankenstein parts of old prison set ups, but it did the trick. True, bar lined cells were lined up in the semi-darkness of the space. In the cells, in clumps like the animals they were supposed to be, Daryl could make out the humps and bumps of bodies—one for each small cell that was barely large enough to lie in—on the floor as others were attempting to sleep. The officer opened one of the cells and pushed Daryl inside.

"Goodnight, 6245," the officer said. "Pass a good night and you get breakfast in the morning."

"Home sweet home," Daryl said dryly as the man closed the cell and walked onward down the corridor to disappear somewhere, the sound of his boots being the last evidence that he had actually existed and wasn't some sadistic ghost of Christmas Past.

Daryl made his way to the wall of his cell and slid down it, using the wall to brace himself against his aching muscles. He leaned his back against the wall and closed his eyes, wishing everything he'd thought before would simply leave now.

"Daryl?" He heard, scratchy but soft. Barely a whisper.

He hummed.

"Daryl?" The voice repeated, just slightly braver. "It's me—to your right." The voice trembled a little.

Daryl looked to his right. Face pressed against the bars that divided them, but barely visible to his less than nocturnal eyes, was Carol.

Daryl scrambled, ignoring his body's protests entirely, toward her. She reached a hand through the bars, surprising him, as she ghosted her fingers across his cheek, just below where he knew his eye was swelling. She made a noise—not entirely human—like a soft mewling.

And then? She cried, the sound barely even carrying over the few inches that the bars put between them.

Daryl caught her hand, not knowing what else to do, and he held it tightly in his. He didn't ask her what was wrong—he didn't have to.

"Go to sleep," he said. "It's what I'ma do. Go to sleep."

She started to make a noise again—not even words—and he responded with his own noise to tell her not to bother. He moved his hand, hers clasped in it so that it felt, at once, completely strange and wholly familiar.

"I got'cha," he said, laughing a little in his throat at the irony of the statement. They were both in the same position. He was no better off than she was. He had no more power than she did. "I got'cha," he repeated, hoping she didn't realize the absurdity of the statement.

And she must not have, because she leaned herself against the bars and, before too long, her hand went completely loose in Daryl's. He didn't let go of it, though—and he wouldn't until he knew that he had to. Instead, he simply leaned his head against the bars, their faces almost touching between them, and he closed his own eyes.

For a moment, all that he'd seen inside his mind that day was simply quiet.


	16. Chapter 16

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"Inmate 6245?"

Daryl opened his eyes. He'd been awake for a little while, but he'd been doing his best to block out everything around him by closing his eyes and focusing on not using his ears for anything. It was his third time waking in this hell. He couldn't really say if it was morning or not because that was difficult to tell. Every day had been the same—except a little worse than the day before. Every night he'd been returned to the same small space. And every night, he'd found her hand threaded through the bars and her face pressed against them. He hadn't really _seen_ her yet, though. It was really too hard to see with much detail. He'd felt her, though. Daryl had let go of Carol's hand hours ago when, in her sleep, she'd readjusted her body and the bars between them had become too great a barrier.

Now there was an officer waiting for him. He was standing right outside his cell.

Daryl didn't bother sitting up yet, but he did hum to let the officer know that he'd stopped in front of the right cell. The man clicked on a flashlight in response, lighting up the rather dim area, and shined it into Daryl's cell.

"I'm officer Hokes," the man said, an unknown officer to Daryl.

"I'm Daryl," Daryl responded.

"Why are you in here, 6245?" The man asked.

Daryl shifted around to put his back against something solid and push himself into a sitting position. They could do what they wanted. They could take turns beating him until he no longer even felt that his body was his own—his own body wouldn't treat him with such cruelty—but they couldn't reduce him to nothing. He understood, now, a little better how it was that Andrea had walked, attempting to carry a tray, to a point where she simply collapsed in the cafeteria.

 _He wondered how she was too. Was she alive? He wondered about Michonne. She'd been steadily racking up points in an effort to do something when nobody else was doing anything. She could likely be in her own little hell-chamber at this moment. He wondered if T-Dog had even noticed his absence or if he'd relished the break from Daryl pressing him to talk about his life. He wondered about Lisette and Doriana—both of which seemed to have learned to stay quiet during things like that. How long did it take before you didn't care? Before you didn't care for the people in here the same way that you hadn't cared for the people out there? Was that the definition of returning to being human? The absence of care and compassion was the becoming of full human._

 _If that was the case, Daryl would remain wild._

"6245? Can you hear me?" Officer Hokes repeated.

"Yeah," Daryl said, swallowing down the knot that he'd brought to himself—a knot in his throat brought on not by his desperation, but rather by an odd feeling of desolation.

"I asked you a question," Officer Hokes said.

"And if I answer it?" Daryl responded. "What? You gonna give me breakfast if I give the right answer and you gonna just walk away if I give the wrong. But—I don't believe the right answer and...I can't understand what's wrong with the wrong. Maybe..." Daryl broke off and chuckled to himself. "Maybe I shoulda just paid more attention in school."

The officer stepped closer to the bars and shined the light in something of an arc around Daryl and the neighboring cells. Daryl followed the light with his eyes and saw when it landed on the lump that was Carol. She was awake. He knew that she had to be. But, like him, she was trying to shut out the world.

"I want to know the truth," Officer Hokes said, his voice quieter than before. "Why are you in here?"

Daryl swallowed and gestured his hand toward Carol's cell.

"Same reason she is," Daryl said. "You were gonna kill Andrea. Or—somebody was. Just wanted to help. Save her if she could be saved. Let her die with some damn dignity and not on the dirty ass floor of the cafeteria—with every damn body watching—if she couldn't. With me there? She's probably dead any damn way."

"Andrea?" The officer asked.

Daryl sighed, but he didn't feel, at the moment, the same kind of energy from this officer as he normally felt. The man's voice was different. His demeanor was different. He hadn't come into the cell yet. He hadn't started barking orders yet. He hadn't pulled Daryl to his feet and demand that, whether he could or not, he stand with some sort of respect. He was simply there.

"LC some-damn-number-or-another F," Daryl said with some boredom. He had no idea what kind of training the officers in this place had to go through to remember everyone's code. He assumed repetition helped, and maybe that's why they called them out so much and flagged them for sneezing on some days, but it seemed easier to associate true names with someone. But then, maybe he only thought that because he was still wild—somewhere down deep inside where he'd never be anything else.

"Late Capture..." the officer mused.

Daryl hummed to ask him to repeat himself, but the officer hummed and dismissed his own words.

"Can you get up, inmate?" Officer Hokes asked.

Daryl flexed his muscles slightly to test them. Most of them seemed to shake and protest every time he tried to use them. This time was no different. He didn't want to admit it, though, so he simply sat in silence and hoped that the punishment for insolence was going to be less severe than the way he'd feel if he had to admit that the trip from the hard floor to standing was just going to be too much to handle on his own at the moment.

"6245?" Hokes repeated. "Are you hard of hearing?"

Daryl chuckled to himself.

"That's the damn way to be," Daryl commented. "Deaf—wish I was. Lucky sons-a-bitches these days."

"How long have you been in here?" Hokes asked.

"You full of questions," Daryl said.

The officer clearly shifted his weight. He dropped the beam of the flashlight toward the floor and Daryl figured that he was about to either give up on him and walk away—off to have a chat with some other inmate that was more agreeable and more desiring of the status of "docile" or "semi-tamed" or whatever Region Thirty Three wanted to call them—or he was about to punish Daryl.

Daryl didn't care either way right now.

"Three sleeps?" Daryl responded. "Four? Could be a very long day. Could be a month. Feel the same in here."

The officer pulled out a very loud collection of keys. The din of the metallic clicking and clacking together of the implements made Daryl's ears hurt in the space. He unlocked the door, walked in, the light beam dancing out behind him now as the flashlight was tucked under his arm, and offered a hand in Daryl's direction.

As a knee jerk reaction, Daryl flinched away from it, but then he realized it was simply a hand offered in assistance. He took it and the officer helped pull him to his feet. Daryl stood there for a moment and tried to ignore his somewhat shaking knees.

"You're out," Hokes said. "Stay in line. Or you'll be back here before you know it."

"Home sweet home," Daryl said. But then, as an afterthought, he looked at the officer and swallowed. "Thanks," he said quietly.

The officer shook his head.

"But—Carol?" Daryl said. "She ain't done nothing I didn't do. Less even."

Hokes nodded.

"Step into the hall, inmate," he said, something of the original quality returning to his voice. "Do you need to be bound now?"

"No," Daryl said quietly. "I ain't going nowhere. Don't know if you all notice but—ain't nowhere to go."

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

The best thing about the whole of Region Thirty Three was that mirrors weren't hanging around. They were dangerous, after all. They could be broken and people could use the shards to injure each other. Realistically, Daryl assumed that they'd, more than likely, the use the shards to try to injure themselves. But that didn't go with the ideas of those in charge. They were all happy here, in captivity.

The worst part was, maybe it was true. At least, at one point, Daryl had been pretty sure it was true for him.

Back in their routines, people weren't talking about what happened to them. Though Daryl was full of questions for everyone, nobody else seemed to have questions like he did. Maybe it was a lack of care, maybe it was a lack of curiosity, or maybe it was just that, deep down, they felt like they already knew. When they gathered for meals, ignoring the way that Carol looked and, therefore, the way that Daryl knew that he must look, people treated their return like they'd come back from vacation if anything.

Andrea wasn't dead. She wasn't at their table for the first meal, but by the second day outside of training, she'd returned. She'd said nothing about it other than she'd been to the clinic. Something internal—something not quite right—but it was taken care of and she had another scar to show. She'd offered, instead of any detailed explanation of her experience, an apology to both Daryl and Carol which neither had accepted.

Michonne hadn't been sent to training yet, but she was sitting on pins and needles with two flags to her name. One slip and she'd be gone. She knew it, but she expected it. She accepted it. Maybe, in her eyes, it was worth it.

T-Dog had spoken to Daryl as though he'd never been gone. He hadn't mentioned that he'd gone to training. He hadn't asked for details. His only form of "welcome back" was to tell Daryl that he'd snagged a book for him, and hidden it under his mattress, that he thought he might like—but the ending was missing so they could talk about it if he wanted. They could figure out what they thought happened because T-Dog had some ideas. Maybe Daryl's would be the same.

Lisette was stoic about the whole thing. She pretended as though nothing at all had happened. Doriana was almost jovial. She went the route of pretending that the world was made of marshmallows and run by fairies and—now that they were all back together—there was nothing but happiness and joy to be discussed. Look for the silver lining.

Daryl just felt different.

He felt like, after having come back from training, he was a different person than he'd ever been for having gone through training before. Before? All the times he'd been through training he'd come back feeling a little less wild. He'd come back feeling that they were right. He was too far gone. He'd been a bad person. More than that, he'd been something sub-human. He needed their help and he wanted their help to become something better. He didn't want to be, any longer, a wild one. This time, though, he felt different. He came out feeling that he was human—that everyone who ate with him and slept around him and shared his experiences was human—and that they, those in power, were the not-quite-humans. He came out feeling like he wanted to hold onto something, even if they called it wildness. Maybe, this time, the difference was the injustice he felt behind the reason that he'd been sent to training. Or, maybe, it was simply the strange comradery he'd found in those around him. It was a comradery that he'd never experienced before, but he liked it.

He wanted something better, for himself and for those around him. That hadn't changed. Maybe it never would, but he was no longer sure if he wanted what they told him he wanted. He didn't want to become one of them. Not entirely.

While sitting at dinner one night, listening to Dori tell them some story about her life before the turn—a life that sounded wonderful but too far removed to relate to—an officer approached their table. Daryl bristled at his presence and felt his muscles tense. He waited for some trumped up accusation to fall on one of them. He waited for Michonne, since she carried the most flags already, to be flagged for having her cup on the wrong side of her tray—or something equally ridiculous—and to be dragged away.

Instead the officer held out an envelope.

"8294F?" He asked.

Carol looked at him.

"That's me," she said.

"You've got orders," he said, passing her the envelope. He walked off as soon as she'd taken it and Daryl glanced around. A few more officers, it seemed, were milling about and handing out envelopes. Instead of carrying a large pile, delivering them all at once, they were delivering one, walking away, and returning with another—slowly the "orders" were making their way around to a number of prisoners. They might even, eventually, come for him.

Carol ripped open the envelope with her finger, the same way she might have once sat and opened bills at a kitchen table in a life far removed from this one, and she extracted the paper. She read it quietly and carefully, her expression unchanging. Then she folded it and put it back in the envelope before she tucked the whole thing under her tray. Nobody asked her what it said with their mouths, but they were all asking her with their eyes.

She shrugged.

"They made me an appointment," she said. "Tomorrow—at the clinic."


	17. Chapter 17

**AN: Since Rodgerse just couldn't wait and needed a quick update to this one, I did my best to deliver.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Immediately upon arrival to the clinic, not having been given any information about her reason for being there beyond the fact that she'd been scheduled to be seen, Carol had given over the customary offering of her blood to the young man that had come to take it from her. In the clinic it was understood that you would either accept what was being done to you, and do so quietly and with no resistance, or there was a guard waiting to restrain you and force you into it. However you wanted it to happen, the choice was up to you.

Shown to the exam room, Carol was told to strip naked. She was offered nothing to cover herself, but she expected nothing either. Captivity had stripped her of every bit of modesty that she had. She'd have simply closed her eyes, held her breath, and walked through the cafeteria naked if that's what they told her to do. After all, what did it matter anyway? It was just her body, and for a good bit of her life she hadn't even really felt it was hers at all. It always seemed to belong to someone else a little more than it belonged to her.

The doctor had come in and offered something of a greeting. That, in itself, was a little strange. The doctors didn't usually do much speaking other than to give commands about what they wanted you to do or to ask a few questions. They didn't exchange niceties with inmates.

Carol didn't know if the doctors at Region Thirty Three were employed by the capture facility or if, perhaps, there was something of a medical circuit. It was hard to imagine how many doctors there might be left in the world. Of course, there was the possibility that, in the fully functioning world that Carol had only really heard about, there were even medical schools and things that were running again. Maybe, somewhere behind the walls that Carol had never been behind, the world went on entirely as it once had.

She mused on these things to distract herself while she was being examined. Medical situations had always made her nervous and now was no different than before. She focused on not focusing. She answered quickly and bluntly the questions that were asked of her.

 _No. She had no medical history of that. No. That neither. Yes. Her grandmother had passed away from heart complications. No. She'd never had a problem. Yes. Her blood pressure was often high. No. She'd never taken medication for it. It was stress induced. Yes, she realized it was high now. Yes. She felt tense._

 _Yes—she felt tense. She felt. She was decreed an animal, but still she felt. Even if the doctor didn't ask her that._

 _Yes she'd just been through training. Yes the bruises came from that. Some of the scars too. She brought some with her. Some from the wild, yes. Others from before the turn. Accidents—yes. That's what he called them. Accidents. He never meant for any of them to happen. Even the ones he deliberately did—the same kind of torture as they used in taming—his own kind of taming. They were accidents. For her own good. Always for her own good. Always her fault. She didn't know how to behave. She still didn't._

When she was asked to shift her body around, lie back, and put her feet into the stirrups, Carol shook her head at the doctor. She didn't verbally protest, but she shook her head at the woman who was still scratching information on various sheets of paper that were attached to a clipboard.

"It's a complete exam," the woman said. "Just a pap smear."

The woman seemed sincere. Her face showed something Carol didn't see often. She cared, maybe? Or maybe it was a false expression left over from some kind of training on what bedside manner should be like. Carol succumbed to her will and focused on the ceiling of the clinic.

"You had a baby?" The doctor asked.

Carol didn't respond. She didn't have to. She knew there was probably a scar from her episiotomy. She knew there were probably ways that doctors could tell these things even if they didn't have scars to see.

"Just one?" The doctor asked.

Carol didn't respond.

The doctor went about finishing what she was doing and then she physically moved Carol's feet out of the stirrups as a way to declare, maybe, that they were done.

"Stay down," the doctor said. "We're not quite done and you'll need to be lying down anyway."

Carol felt her heart pounding in her chest so hard that she was glad the part of the examination was done that required the woman to listen to the drumming of the organ. Otherwise she might believe that Carol's heart was on the verge of explosion.

The doctor walked over to look at Carol, and Carol lifted her head just enough to be able to see the woman well.

"One baby, or was there more?" She asked. "You don't want to talk about it, so I'm not going to ask you more than I need to know."

Carol swallowed. She didn't want to answer. She didn't want to talk about it, but her brain was acutely aware that, somewhere out there, there was a guard that was waiting to restrain her. Maybe two if that's what it would take. One way or another, they'd get the information out of her.

"One baby..." Carol said.

"More than one pregnancy?" The woman asked.

Carol nodded her head, but didn't offer words. The woman's expression didn't really change.

"Voluntarily or involuntarily?" The doctor asked. Carol didn't say anything and the woman shook her head at her. "There's no judgment here. I just need to know your history."

"Involuntarily," Carol said.

"Fine," the doctor said.

Carol thought that, maybe in a different world, the woman's face said she might have offered condolences. These days? Condolences seemed almost entirely out of place. Carol offered them to other prisoners whose stories she knew, and they offered them to her when she chose to share bits and pieces of her own, but it would be strange coming from someone who was on the outside. These days? The feeling of "us" and "them" was too strong for even sympathy to cross the boundaries.

The doctor returned to her clipboard a moment and then she spoke to Carol again. Carol leaned up enough to watch her as she went about doing things.

"Are you menopausal? Or...?" The doctor asked.

"I don't know," Carol said.

"Do you still have periods?" The doctor asked.

"Yes," Carol said.

"Regularly?" The doctor asked.

Carol sighed and shook her head.

"They never were," she said. "They're still not."

The doctor looked oddly amused. Carol heard a soft laugh escape her. The sound of laughter was always a strange sound to the ears.

"They're regularly irregular," the doctor said. "But—that's your regular."

Carol surprised herself when she heard the sound of laughter again and realized that, this time, it was she who had become amused. She nodded, appreciating that the one moment of laughter managed to help calm her just a little.

"I'll mark down that you're still fertile," the doctor said. "It's better that way, anyway."

"Better for what?" Carol asked.

The doctor shook her head, a look coming over her face that maybe suggested that she hadn't meant to say anything—she was becoming too relaxed in her rigid role.

"It doesn't matter," she said.

"I don't get to know why I'm here?" Carol asked.

"You're here for an examination," the doctor said with a sigh. It was either because she was tiring of hearing that from people who had also gotten the envelopes—many of them had been passed around—or it was because she didn't entirely like the idea of not saying anything more. Either way, she wasn't pleased with the answer that she gave. The doctor stood a moment, frozen in place, and then she paced a few steps and changed her position so that she was easier for Carol to see from her location. "We're doing examinations and gathering medical information. It's easier to have it all in one place. Before you leave? In just a moment? I'm going to chip you. Your information is stored in the computer databases and in your chip."

Carol started to sit up and the doctor waved her hands at her, already shaking her head.

"There's no reason to fight this," she said. "It's going to happen one way or another. I can call the guards in here—but it's not going to make it any more pleasant."

Carol shook her head at her.

"Why?" Was all she managed to say. The word sounded foreign to her. It had been a long time since she'd been able to sincerely ask that question to anyone. It had been even longer since she felt like she might get a response. These days? There wasn't an answer to why. There was simply the understanding that things happened the way they happened because that's how it was declared to be.

The doctor shook her head.

"It's a new practice."

She held up her arm and worked her short sleeve up to her shoulder. She revealed to Carol a slightly faded tattoo, but then she held her arm out oddly and pointed to a small and slightly purple mark.

"Everyone's getting them," she said. "It isn't a choice. That's all the scar that you'll have from it."

"I don't care about the scar," Carol said, not meaning to but letting loose an ironic laugh. "Look at me!"

The doctor frowned.

"Do I have to get the guards?" She asked.

Carol sighed and dropped back on the table to stare at the ceiling again. She shook her head and effectively ended their conversation. The answer to any "why" was still the same. At least, now, it was simply that it was something everyone must do. At least this time it wasn't because she was wild. At least this time? Like it had been the last time she'd really asked "why" with all her heart? It wasn't that she was wild and unfit to care for her daughter.

"Are you going to cooperate?" The doctor asked, apparently missing Carol's shake of the head.

"Yes!" Carol said, more loudly than she intended. "Yes," she repeated with less force. "Just—do whatever you've got to do."

She waited, keeping her promise to cooperate, as the doctor got everything that she needed prepared. She moved the way she was told to move. She listened quietly as the doctor explained to her what to expect from the "procedure"—not that it mattered anyway. And she listened as she was told to hold her breath since, in capture facilities, rare were the times when prisoners merited any kind of assistance with pain. After all, animals didn't know or care when they were hurt.

Carol was determined not to make any sound while the chip was implanted, and she almost succeeded. The doctor didn't scold her for the sounds that did escape her, or for her flinching. Instead she offered her a soft apology as she cleaned and bandaged the upper part of her arm, her brand new chip, which Carol had decided was more than likely a tracking device, located now on the inside of her right arm and not too far below her armpit.

"You did great," the doctor said, still wrapping the spot. "Better than—at least half the people I've had in here."

Carol just nodded. There was nothing to say for a moment and she didn't trust herself to speak.

"Gonna throw up?" The doctor asked.

Carol swallowed. She did feel a little nauseous, but it was strange to be asked that.

"Have other people?" She asked.

"More than you might imagine," the doctor responded. "It's a sensitive area. When I got my tattoo? That was the part where I was cursing the guy's lineage all the way back to his great-great grandparents."

Carol laughed to herself, and was once again thankful for the laugh.

"Then why there?" Carol asked.

"We put it deep," the doctor said. "In case someone freaks out? They can't dig it out."

"Can't get rid of it," Carol mused. "Not without sacrificing your dominant arm."

The doctor neither confirmed nor denied Carol's interpretation of the practice.

"Keep it wrapped tightly for the rest of the day. By tomorrow, you can take it off and the bleeding will have stopped. If it hasn't? Tell them you need to come to the clinic. The officers already know that it's a request that might be made of them," the doctor said.

"Did I pass the test?" Carol asked, starting to sit up. The doctor offered her a hand and she accepted it more readily than she usually accepted someone's assistance. She wasn't even trying to pretend, at the moment, that she was treating her right arm as though it were a totally foreign appendage and keeping it hugged to her body.

"What test?" The doctor asked.

"Whatever test you're giving me," Carol said.

The doctor looked at her, lost all expression, and held her eyes for a moment. It was unnerving to be looked at it in the eyes that way by someone who wasn't a fellow captive. Finally, she nodded, but she didn't say anything else before she gathered up her things and left Carol to dress before the guard came knocking at the door to escort her out of the clinic and back to the general population.


	18. Chapter 18

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Daryl separated and isolated Carol away from the crowd, after dinner, as surely as if he'd been a cowboy culling cattle from a herd. Immediately upon hitting the yard, seeing his opportunity, he slowly pushed her toward one of the back fences, walking this way and that to keep her moving, and everyone else somewhat slipped away to the sides to do something else.

He'd gotten a letter, a little later than the rest, that had sent him to the clinic. The general consensus, since the members of their small group all felt limited in sharing their experiences, was that they'd all been given some kind of information chip. Andrea hadn't been asked to the clinic, but as soon as she realized what they were all discussing, it didn't take her long to discover that she'd simply been chipped without any discussion of what they were doing while they were patching her up. And though everyone seemed a little annoyed about the chip, especially since it was uninvited and unwanted but too deep to remove themselves, Carol seemed especially quiet about it. So, of course, Daryl wanted to know what was on her mind—and he didn't feel like she was going to be quite as willing to share in a crowd.

When he finally got Carol somewhat separated from the rest of the "herd," Daryl realized he really had no idea what he wanted to say or how to say it. He searched for the words in silence and Carol seemed oblivious to his struggle. Finally, fearing that she'd simply dart off again, he decided he'd better say something. Even if it wasn't the best, at least it might lead them to having more to discuss.

"You—uh—I'm sure the chip thing, it ain't nothing," Daryl said. He very nearly scrunched up his own face at the words, especially since he didn't believe them in the slightest and wasn't sure why they'd been the ones that his brain had decided to expel from his mouth.

Carol's eyes widened a little, but then returned to their normal size. She did the customary glancing around them that Daryl no longer even noticed.

"It's a tracking device," Carol said. "Or—I don't know, it stores all our information. It's something. It's not nothing or they wouldn't have called us all back there."

Daryl hummed.

"But they called us all back," he pointed out. "So that means it's just—something they're doing now. Sure as taming. Everybody gets a little bit more shit. Lot of people here. You heard 'em say that tomorrow we're on partial lockdown. Three new groups coming in. Probably too damn much information."

"And if they transfer us, our information goes with us," Carol said.

Daryl wasn't entirely sure if she was agreeing with him or pointing out her own theory, but he nodded and hummed just the same. Either way, one theory was as good as the next. There was never any telling what the powers in control of them were doing.

"They're chipping the tame people too," Carol said. "The doctor was chipped."

Daryl shrugged.

"So there ya go, it's what the hell they do these days," Daryl said.

"It means we'll never be free," Carol said. "Don't you see that? It means—this is it. We really are prisoners for the rest of our lives. There's no freedom."

Daryl cocked an eyebrow at her. Honestly, until she'd said that, he'd never even contemplated the idea that they might be free. He just assumed this was the way that things were now. Some people were in power, some were prisoners. That's how it all went down. They'd die here, just as they lived here, and they'd be just as forgotten as every other prisoner that died in these types of facilities. They weren't even allowed their names, their numbers would surely be lost.

"What the hell ever made you think that you'd be free again?" Daryl asked. As soon as he asked the question, he almost wished he could take it back. The expression on Carol's face told him that he might as well have called her a dumbass for her thoughts. He hadn't really meant to do that. He muttered a quick and quiet apology, and her face fell to a more neutral position before it switched again into one that might have been imploring him _not to be a dumbass_.

"That's what they've told us," Carol said. "At least—that's what they told me. We could be tamed. We could—get out there. We could—become just as civilized as them. We could—get our lives back together."

Daryl swallowed. Something about Carol's demeanor changed by the time she'd reached the end of her statement. There was something there that he wasn't used to seeing that much in the woman who could be quick to leave a conversation and in the woman who seemed just as accepting of their fate as he was. He would have never dreamed that she thought that there was any chance at some kind of "normal" life for all of them, but now it was coming through that maybe she did. Maybe she thought it was possible. Or maybe it was just some kind of hope that she was holding onto.

He shook his head.

"If they told you that," he said, already knowing he didn't believe what he was about to say, "then it must be true. These things? Don't mean nothing. Not if they're chipping everybody."

Carol laughed to herself and shook her head at him.

"It means—this goes with us," Carol said, looking around her. "It means that if we escaped? They'd track us down. It means that—if we tried to assimilate? Legally or otherwise? It means they'd track us down. It means we'll always be tagged. We're always—at least a little bit wild in their eyes."

Daryl chewed at his lip. He couldn't tell her that what she was saying wasn't true or that it was ridiculous to think that way. He'd already, in his opinion, lied to her. And, for whatever reason, he didn't want to lie to her. He guarded his silence instead and she regarded the ground with a little too much interest to dedicate to a pile of dirt and grass. After a moment, her expression changed and she sucked in a deep breath. When she looked at him, she was wearing a half-sincere smile.

She shook her head gently this time. The movement was barely perceptible.

"It doesn't matter," she said.

Daryl guarded his silence. He just looked at her. That's all he could do. There was an odd aching in his chest just to know that he couldn't tell her that what she wanted—or at least what he thought she might want—was probably something that would never happen.

And, oddly enough, he'd never really felt such a strong need before to tell anyone that what they wanted might really happen.

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Carol saw something in Daryl's expression that made her stomach do a somersault. She knew, immediately, what the look was, but she didn't know if she wanted to believe it. She didn't know if it mattered at any rate. Not with their lives. Not with Region Thirty Three hanging around them.

But it was flattering to see that look on his face—and it was something that she hadn't seen in a long time.

Carol swallowed and offered him the best smile that she could muster. Sometimes, even though it didn't truly make anything better, you just wanted some comfort. You wanted someone to tell you that it was going to be OK, even if they had no power to promise such a thing. And you wanted them to hold you, even if they had no way at all of protecting you.

"I never told you," Carol said, lowering her voice in case there might be any eavesdroppers—though at the moment all of the guards were more occupied by the more active members of the general population, "thank you."

Daryl furrowed his brows at her. She felt her smile growing more sincere.

"For holding my hand?" Carol said. "You didn't have to do that. You didn't have to do anything."

"You were scared," Daryl said.

Carol nodded her head gently.

She wasn't exactly scared. Scared wasn't the word that she might have used. It was always the same, so she really knew what to expect. They might do different things, and every now and again they might come up with something new that they wanted to test out on the prisoners to see how they responded, but she still never really felt frightened. The worst that they could do to her, in there, was to kill her. And though she didn't particularly want to die—and though she still held onto some belief that there might be something in this life worth living for—she wasn't afraid to die. Sometimes, and especially in the taming rooms, death felt like it would be a welcome and sweet relief.

She wasn't scared. At least, she wasn't scared of them.

If anything, she was scared of herself. She was scared of what she'd been, of what she'd become. She was scared of what she sometimes believed that she could be. She was scared of the thoughts that she had of things that, if she had the power to do them, she might do to some of the people that she'd met while in one facility or another. She was far more frightened of herself than she'd ever be of a guard.

And she was scared that the things they told her were true.

Maybe Daryl had been right, after all. Maybe she'd been scared.

"Still," Carol said, allowing herself a pause before she continued. "You didn't have to do it."

Daryl looked uncomfortable, but she allowed it. He probably was uncomfortable. She didn't know much about him, not beyond what he'd told her, but she was sure that there was a great deal left to uncover there—if she ever got the chance.

"Maybe I was a little scared too," Daryl said quietly. He didn't sound convinced by his words and Carol wasn't sure if it was because he was speaking before he was sure of what he wanted to say or if he was really trying to say it simply to make her feel better. Maybe he was simply trying to create another shared experience between them. It didn't matter. She'd take it for exactly what it was worth. And these days? It was worth a great deal.

"It's OK to be scared," Carol said.

Daryl looked struck, but he didn't say anything. Carol let the silence between them be comfortable a moment, but she kept watching him and she noticed that he wasn't turning away from her. He was looking at her intently. He was focused on her every move. She was sure that, at that moment, he was probably noticing things about her that nobody had ever noticed before—things she wasn't even aware of.

It was flattering and unnerving.

Her heart thundered in her chest. She didn't know what she was going to do. She didn't know what he was going to do. It wasn't as though they had too many options to decide for themselves what they even wanted.

Carol cast a nervous glance around her and assured herself that the officer nearest them was too occupied with the sandwich he was eating to be paying them any attention. They were talking. They weren't threatening anyone. They weren't even giving off the signal that they might be a threat to each other. For just a moment, they were almost forgotten. They were almost invisible.

Carol's pulse picked up a notch and she began to regret her actions before she'd even done them, but she knew that regretting something left undone was worse than regretting an action. Quickly, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to Daryl's.

She didn't dare to leave them there too long. A quick stolen kiss, she'd learned well from Andrea and Michonne, could be had. It was anything more that drew the attention of those around them. She broke the kiss as quickly as she'd initiated it and immediately she felt her breathing change its pace and felt her cheeks flood with warmth that she was sure was visible.

Daryl stared at her. He stared at her with the same intent look as before. This time, though, his brows were slightly furrowed. She almost grew angry from her embarrassment and wanted to yell at him that he should say something. But she didn't, and she didn't have to.

His face broke into a smile. There was just a hint of one there. It played at the corners of his mouth and drew one side up further than the other. He let go of a breath in an almost sigh.

"What was that?" He asked.

Carol swallowed.

"I think—it's what they call a kiss," she said. She raised an eyebrow at him.

He laughed quietly.

"Smart ass," he said, glancing around them to assure himself that nobody had seen them and nobody was calling them out for their actions. He brought his eyes back to her. "But what..."

Carol sucked in a breath and quickly let it out. She was using a different store of courage, right now, than she'd used in a long time. It seemed almost more difficult to be brave at this moment than it had even when she was being taken to one of the private rooms in taming.

This mattered to her in a different way, even if she didn't want to think about why or how.

"I know a place," Carol said quietly, barely giving voice to her words and counting on Daryl's ability to either have super hearing or to read lips. "They're not too bad after lights out. Right after, the guards haven't changed. The ones that are there are tired. They forget a lot. Right after lights out, ask to go to the bathroom. Say you forgot. Say you were—brushing your teeth and ran out of time. They won't escort you. I know where you're at. Go to the bathroom. If I'm not there—wait in the shower? Out of sight?"

Daryl went slightly bug eyed.

"What if we get caught?" He asked.

Carol shook her head.

"Flag," she said.

He looked uncomfortable and she shook her head again.

"You don't have to," Carol said. "I'll be there. I won't wait long, but I'll wait. You don't have to come. If you don't—I'll know you weren't...comfortable. And—it'll be OK."

"If we get flagged..." Daryl started.

Carol smiled at him, ignoring the fact that she almost felt like her chest was closing up. Her breathing was becoming shallower and shallower as she pushed the limits of her own bravery.

"Then you'll hold my hand," she said quickly.

Rather than stay and embarrass herself by coming to pieces from embarrassment, nerves, or some other sneaky emotion that was trying to choke her, Carol quickly turned and darted as fast as she could back across the yard and toward the safety of her bunks—she only had to get through "night routines" and then she'd really test the limits of her new-found courage.


	19. Chapter 19

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Daryl waited in the bathroom in the complete silence. He felt like his breathing was louder than it usually was. He felt like his heart was drumming in his ears loudly enough that anyone might be able to hear it. Knowing that if he got caught—especially if Carol came and they were caught together—had him reacting to every perceived sound. The fact that they might get caught, in fact, had him so nervous that he'd barely been able to think about how nervous he might be about what she was even proposing to him.

When he heard light footfalls in the bathroom, Daryl didn't know if he should peek out to see if Carol was there, and give himself away if it was someone else, or if he should stay hidden. He finally sucked in a breath, attempted to hold it as best he could, and flattened himself against the inside of the shower. That was, after all, where she'd told him to be. Stay out of sight. Stay out of mind.

Daryl let out the breath when Carol's figure appeared in the doorway of the shower stall—none of which had the luxury of curtains.

"I thought you weren't coming," Daryl said.

"Jury's still out," Carol said. He heard the light laugh that followed it. Suddenly, his heart did a skip that was entirely unrelated to the fact that they had officers and guards to fear.

Carol stepped into the shower and walked close enough to him that they were almost touching. Daryl wet his lips and swallowed. He'd made the decision to come here. He'd made the decision to take this chance. The least he could do was be the first to kiss her and make it clear that he was on board with this—not just coming against his will. He wasn't very good at kissing, though, and he hoped that wasn't going to be a deal breaker for her. He leaned forward and she lifted her face toward his in anticipation, making it easier for him. He brought their lips together and simply held the soft kiss for a moment. It wasn't long, though, before the simple kiss wasn't enough. He wanted more than that. So he deepened it. Carol shuffled back a half a step, clearly from faulty footing on the shower floor, and Daryl reached an arm out and caught her behind the back, pulling her into him.

As soon as her body was against his, Daryl realized that he'd wanted this more than he'd known before. Maybe it was all the time that it had been since he'd even seen a woman that wasn't under lock and key. Maybe it was Carol herself. Maybe it was some combination. Whatever it was, though, Daryl found that he simply stopped thinking about anything except the kiss—which led into another and another. He was allowing his hands to explore, keeping her pulled tight against his body, when she finally broke the kiss and, panting, pushed away from him.

"Not here," Carol whispered. "Not—here. Too easy to get caught."

Daryl furrowed his brows at her and leaned forward to steal another kiss. His lips made contact with the corner of her mouth as she pulled away from him and repeated the mantra that this wasn't the place.

"Then where?" He asked finally.

"I know a place," Carol said. "They don't check there. Not often. Everybody knows about it, but—they don't go there often. Don't want the guards to find out about it."

Daryl didn't care, at this point, if they were going to jump the fences. His mind had already abandoned worrying about getting caught.

"Where?" He pressed. "Let's go. Where you wanna go?"

Carol froze for a moment and looked at him. Daryl got the quick stab of panic that he'd said or done something wrong. He'd been too fast. He'd been too enthusiastic. He'd been something wrong and now she was regretting even coming here. She was rethinking the whole thing because he didn't know how to control himself when she kissed him. He felt his face burn hot and he was glad that it was dimly lit enough in the space that she probably couldn't see the color burning up to the surface of his cheeks.

She didn't tell him that she'd changed her mind, though. She just looked at him a moment, nodded her head gently, and then turned. She looked in both directions before stepping out of the shower stall and then she waved at him to follow her and put a finger to her mouth to signal that he should be quiet—in case he wasn't smart enough to figure that out on his own.

Daryl followed Carol down dark hallways, stopping when she stopped and mimicking her every move until he wasn't even sure where he was and he wasn't sure how she still knew where she was. Clearly there was a great deal that he didn't know about Region Thirty Three, but it wasn't entirely unknown to the "veterans" of the establishment. Finally, she opened and door and pulled him inside. She fumbled around in the almost complete darkness now and he stood still because he had no idea where he was or what was happening. There was a clicking noise and following it there was a little bit of a light from a naked bulb in the corner of the small room cluttered with stuff.

"Where the hell are we?" Daryl asked.

"Storage room," Carol said. "Hardly anyone comes here, though."

"Because it's a hundred miles from everything else?" Daryl asked.

Carol smiled.

"It's secluded," she said. "Closest thing to privacy there is around here."

Daryl looked around. Storage room was one name for the place. Abandoned room full of abandoned junk might be another. The room was almost too full of things for them to be here as well. It was cramped and dirty. Nobody came here to check on things, but they also didn't come here to clean, that much was certain.

The bathroom shower stall, complete with no curtain, was actually a more romantic location.

"You wanna—here?" Daryl asked.

"You had a suite booked somewhere?" Carol asked, looking around.

Daryl cleared his throat at her quick response.

"It's just—not very nice," Daryl said. "Almost feels..."

He stopped himself because he hated to admit that, somewhere deep down inside of him, was the kind of man that his brother would make fun of. It was the kind of man that had never really been that into relationships, but also hadn't been into hook ups. Maybe it was owing to the fact that the women he was around weren't really the relationship kinds. He'd certainly never felt comfortable, though, with the idea of hook ups in bathrooms, back seats, and other questionable locations that his brother had bragged about and never seemed to think was less than extraordinary.

Carol stepped toward him. She was wearing concern on her face. It was legitimate concern. It was real. She wasn't mocking him like he somewhat feared she might.

"If you don't want to," she said, "then we don't have to. It's just—this is as good as it gets. We probably won't get caught here, as long as we don't do this often, and we'd get caught anywhere else."

Daryl glanced around again and then he looked at her. His aversion to the space was pretty great. Maybe it was, more than to the space, the fact that they were going to be together in this space—if they were treated like animals elsewhere, this certainly reduced them to behaving in a less than dignified fashion. However, his desire to kiss her again, and his desire to see what else that might lead to, outweighed his aversion to every other aspect of the situation.

He only responded by kissing her again and she brought her body back against his like she had in the shower. This time it was his step that faltered and broke them apart for a moment. She took the momentary separation as an opportunity to work her way out of the uniform that she was wearing and revealed that under it she was wearing the pajamas they were issued—which Daryl barely bothered to wear.

He watched her, frozen for a moment, as she stripped down. He knew there was no telling how many times, since coming to Region Thirty Three, she'd been asked to take everything off. She did it methodically. Like she didn't notice what she was doing. She did it almost like she didn't want to notice what she was doing. The only difference, Daryl supposed, was that this time she was making the decision to take everything off and stand before him.

She almost presented herself when she was done, assuming a stance of presentation, and she offered him an oddly placed and muttered apology. He shook his head at her, finding that he couldn't really speak, and rid himself of his own clothes.

Immediately, she brought her body against him and warmed his skin against the chill of the dirty little room. He kissed her, all the while trying to figure out if there was even a suitable place to suggest that they take this to some other level.

"We can't take too long," Carol whispered, when she broke out of the kiss. "They're less likely to notice we're gone because it's night. But—too long? They'll notice."

Daryl understood her urgency. Though he might have wanted to take his time and lazily explore her body, and though he might have wanted her to do the same to him, there just wasn't time for that. This wasn't the place for it. This was a case of finding what they could among what they had.

"Where?" He asked.

Carol looked around, shrugged, and finally led him to a place where there was a counter. She pushed some of the items that were cluttered up on it to the side and started to hoist herself up there. Daryl shook his head at her, caught her shoulders, and pushed at them to keep her feet firmly on the floor. Understanding his request that she wait, he went and dug his t-shirt out of the pile of clothes and came back to put it on the counter.

"Better'n nothing," he declared, though he felt his cheeks burn red at the words. Carol wrapped her arms around him in response, kissing him, and then she dropped her face to the crook of his neck. In response, Daryl dropped his hands and hoisted her up so that she was resting on the counter. He held onto her for a moment after he rested her weight there to assure himself that the whole thing wasn't going to collapse.

Neither of them said anything, but there wasn't much to say. They couldn't make declarations of love to one another. Most words, these days, tasted strange in their mouths. All they had was the moment—whatever it might mean—that was between them and that didn't require words.

The sounds around them were the sounds of their bodies, the creaking of the cabinet underneath Carol, and the sound of her breathing and a few soft noises as she kept changing her position just enough that she was wrapped into him with her breath blowing near his neck. He felt her body respond to him and he felt her when she reached her release, clawing at him as she did, and he followed right behind her.

For a moment, he stayed right where he was. He slumped into her, pressing her somewhat against the wall behind her and she responded by wrapping herself around him even tighter than before. That moment, just before he finally had to admit that it was really over, was the best of all to Daryl. He couldn't recall when he'd ever been that close to a person. He couldn't recall when he'd ever felt so physically comfortable—or comforted—by the proximity of someone else. Despite the sting of the scratches she'd lavished on his back and shoulders, it was the best feeling of touch that he could recall.

And he missed her the very moment that her feet gained the floor again and quickly she returned to dress.

He watched her dress for only a moment before he started to dress too. He ran through his mind, searching for words, hoping that he could come up with something to say that would be exactly what he wanted. The words hadn't been there before, though, and they weren't there now. When she was dressed, she offered him her lips again in the same manner that she had in the shower and he kissed her. This time the kiss remained soft and gentle. Knowing they were leaving this space—cramped and dirty and distasteful as it was—Daryl didn't let the kiss go any farther than that.

Carol turned off the little light to the room and then she opened the door. Daryl stood behind her while she checked in one direction and the other. She stepped back in and pushed the door almost closed to speak to him again.

"I'll show you to the bathroom," she whispered. "Then—we each go back. On our own."

Daryl tried to stammer out something—knowing he should say something, but not knowing what to say, until he heard Carol hum at him in the negative.

"You don't have to say anything," Carol said. "I think—we said all there was to say."

Daryl accepted that for what it was. After all, he couldn't argue with it. He didn't feel at all dissatisfied with what had happened—and he didn't have the words to argue anyway.


	20. Chapter 20

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"This is Edith," Regina said, her hand on the back of the almost-woman that she was presenting to Samirah.

A short trip to make some arrangements and iron out some issues had taken Samirah away, but she was back. The fact that John and Regina had been accepted to adopt, something that was apparently akin to making it through an obstacle course that was lit on fire, was something to celebrate. Samirah hadn't realized, however, that the girl they were getting was hardly a child.

To cover her shock, Samirah forced a smile and offered a hand toward Edith. Edith didn't take it, though, and she offered no smile of her own.

"It's nice to meet you," Samirah said, attempting to save the situation.

There was still no response from the almost-woman. Samirah studied her. If she was sixteen, she was born at the turn of the world. Any older would mean that, whether she held any memories of it, she was born before. Any younger would mean she was born in the thick of things—when it was really bad and when adults had to have a certain mettle to survive.

Edith had a story, but she wasn't sharing it with anyone. She was too tight lipped for that, it was clear.

"Isn't she lovely?" Regina prompted. Samirah shifted her gaze to the woman. Regina had wanted a baby so badly that Samirah had hoped for her that it would come to pass. She'd been nearly consumed with it like a fever. However, even with the fever clouding her mind, Samirah couldn't believe that this was what Regina wanted.

"She's beautiful," Samirah said, the words tasting strange in her mouth when directed to Regina about Edith, who was present. Regina seemed pleased with the confirmation, however, and immediately excused Edith—whom she'd drawn from her room for the presentation—to return to her leisure. As soon as the girl left, Regina went back to preparing dinner, which Samirah's arrival had interrupted, and Samirah lingered around the kitchen for a few moments and worked on finding the right words for what she wanted to say. Finally, she sucked in a breath and committed to it. However, what came out was unsatisfying and not at all what she'd planned to say. She halted at the one word. "Edith?"

Regina looked at her, a smile on her face, but there was more behind the smile. It couldn't hold long and then it finally fell.

"She's a capture," Regina said, as though this might be news to Samirah. "She's slated to go to Region Thirty Three if she doesn't—assimilate. But she hasn't had much of a chance. The wild born children don't get adopted unless it's—a situation like ours. She hasn't had any—upbringing."

Samirah leaned against the kitchen counter and kept quiet to let Regina keep talking. The faucet was on. All the information would come out because it needed to come out. Regina needed to share this with someone—all of it—and likely John already knew about it and had his own opinions. She needed fresh ears and Samirah was willing to be that.

"They said that if we take her, then they can promise us another wild born. A younger one. And if that works out? Captivity born infant? Or even—if there are any—we get first dibs on a baby given up," Regina said. "It's the shortest distance."

"Three children?" Samirah asked.

"We don't have to keep her," Regina said, her words coming out as little more than air. "If she assimilates well? She'll be released. If not?"

She didn't finish and Samirah didn't need her to finish. If not, the girl would go into the facilities where she would be tamed with the hope and understanding that, eventually, she may be able to be released into society as a fully functioning member.

"What do you know about her?" Samirah asked.

Regina shook her head.

"Nothing," she said. "She's—a wild born. She was captured. I know her number and that's it. She doesn't talk about it. She doesn't seem to talk about much, really."

"Edith isn't her name?" Samirah asked. Regina shook her head.

"My mother's name," Regina said. "Edith and then Louise for John's mother. We had to give her something. I can't call her WB639 like she's a robot while she's here."

"Did you ask her what her real name is?" Samirah pressed. Regina half nodded and half shrugged as a response.

"She doesn't want to talk," Regina said. She shook her head. "I'm just trying to get through this. I'm just—trying to focus on giving her what I can for the time that she's here. It's up to her where she goes from here. Realistically? She's old enough to make her own decisions. I know—or I think—she'll go to Region Thirty Three. You know how it is, once wild, always wild."

Samirah felt her stomach roll.

"That's not always true," Samirah said.

Regina looked at her and raised her eyebrows.

"It's not?" She asked. The question was clearly not a real question. It was something of a challenge. It exerted Regina's beliefs on the topic with nothing more than the tone of her voice.

"If it is, then we're wasting our time," Samirah said. "All the—attempts to...tame? We're wasting our time."

"We're biding our time, I think. Sometimes. There's discussion right now about—euthanizing or whatever you want to call it. Lessen the burden," Regina said. "If—if they could be tamed? If it could really happen that they'd be released and not revert immediately back to what they were? Why would we even be discussing the most humane way to handle the numbers?"

Samirah's stomach, now, was churning to a point that she wasn't comfortable with. She willed herself not to gag at the thoughts that were turning over and over in her mind.

It was the year 16 AT. The Power was dealing with things. The world had to keep moving forward. It had to keep _progressing_. There were ways that this could go, and right now it felt like everything around them was being set up into a number of _experiments_. Which way would humankind go? Put on the board, how would they play?

And Samirah was in an uncomfortable position, but it was one that she couldn't refuse.

"If they can't be tamed," Samirah said, "then I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what—John's working for. If they're just animals, with not a shred of something human inside them? I don't know what I'm working for..."

Regina shook her head.

"Maybe you're working for nothing," Regina said. "Or maybe I'm just being pessimistic. Maybe they can be tamed. Maybe they can be released. Maybe—it'll all work out. Or..."

Samirah hummed, already knowing what her friend was thinking, but needing her to lay it out all out between them.

"Maybe we eradicate them all and we start over," Regina said. "A fresh slate."

Samirah swallowed at the thought, a salty taste in her mouth to go with her unease.

 _A fresh slate. How many times had the world seen that?_

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"Are you crazy?" Michonne asked, almost hissing in her attempts to keep her voice low.

"I think so," Carol confirmed, nodding her head at the woman. Huddled together on the bunk for a moment, they were doing their best to speak in nothing above a whisper so as to not wake any of the other women. Michonne had heard Carol when she'd slipped back into the room—managing to avoid the guard entirely because he was sleeping on the job—and she'd immediately pressed her for some kind of explanation about where Carol had been.

And this time she hadn't been stealing treats from the kitchen.

"What if you get...?" But Michonne didn't finish.

Carol shook her head at her at any rate. She could make Michonne out, given the fact that there was light coming in from the small upper windows in the dorm that let in a faint glow from the floodlights outside. She could see the concern on her face.

"I don't think he had anything," Carol said. "And if he did? I don't really care. I don't. Even if it kills me—I haven't lost anything that was worth anything to me anyway."

"I wasn't talking about disease," Michonne responsed. "What if you get—pregnant?"

Carol felt her heart skip a beat. That was the last thing that she wanted. It was the last thing that anybody wanted. They knew what happened. They knew it was torture to have children taken from you. It was torture, too, to have to carry the child to term, all the while living in Region Thirty Three, and then to deliver that child never to be allowed to hold it in their arms. Carol shook her head.

"I'm not getting pregnant," Carol said. "If that ship hasn't sailed entirely, it's certainly left the dock. It won't happen."

"But you're willing to take the chance it could," Michonne pointed out.

"Don't play high and mighty with me," Carol said. "We take some chances for a little comfort. We do things. You're going to tell me that if you and Andrea could...if a baby could come from it? Then you wouldn't?"

Michonne didn't respond.

"I know you," Carol said. "I know Andrea. And I know—your story. Don't lecture me. You're not my mother."

Michonne accepted the warning in Carol's voice. She had to. Carol hadn't lied. In regard to Andrea and Michonne, she might not know it all, but she knew most of it. She'd been the first and only one, at least in the beginning, to reach out to the two women—late captures who'd both come in looking almost entirely broken in both the physical and emotional senses of the word—and she'd taken on their pain to help lighten the load for them.

"I just don't want to see you..." Michonne said, leaving it hanging. It was all she offered in defense of herself at the moment.

"You never even asked me why," Carol said. "Or how it was. Or what I— _felt_."

Michonne, seeming to feel that it was her duty as a friend, responded back with those questions, rearranged but otherwise exactly as Carol had presented them, in a somewhat defeated voice. Carol ignored the questions. She'd answer them as she wanted. That was all there was to it. She would say what she wanted to say. Nothing more and nothing less. Michonne already knew that too.

"I _felt_ ," Carol mused.

"Felt what?" Michonne asked.

Carol shook her head.

"I don't think it matters," Carol said. "It doesn't matter. It's not...it doesn't matter what I felt. It just—I _felt_."

Michonne snorted.

"I think I know what you felt," Michonne teased.

Carol frowned at her and Michonne raised her eyebrows.

"Joke," Michonne offered. Carol shook her head. A joke might be funny at other times, but at the moment she wasn't feeling like laughing or making light of the whole thing. She was surprised at herself, actually, because she'd thought that it might be nice. She'd thought that maybe she could offer a little comfort to Daryl. Maybe she could offer him something nice, some temporary escape from this whole cruel world. She'd thought that she might enjoy being in a man's arms again. She thought that she might get a little pleasure—if she was lucky—from the whole thing. But she'd never expected to feel the way that she felt. She'd never expected to really _feel_.

"I _felt_ ," Carol repeated. "I _feel_ and..."

"And?" Michonne pushed.

"And I don't know what it is," Carol said. "But I know that—for the first time in a long time? It isn't fear or hate or...pain. It feels...good."

Michonne squirmed a little on the mattress, moving herself next to Carol. In the dark and quiet bunk—with Officer Sleeps-A-Lot on guard and not likely to wake unless alerted or unless something made too harsh a noise—she took a chance and dropped an arm around Carol's shoulder, bringing her closer to her for a hug.

"I'm sorry I called you crazy," Michonne said quietly. She knew that the chance to feel something good, these days, was worth the risk. If it weren't, she and Andrea would have never gotten the reputation from the guards of having to be flagged differently to keep them apart as much as possible. Everyone knew it wasn't an accident. Michonne would understand, if she was honest, the novelty of something that felt good in a sea of so many things that felt so bad. She seemed to be understanding, now, that that was all that Carol wanted right now, even if she hadn't realized it before. "Hold onto the feeling," Michonne said. "As long as you can. The rest? It'll work itself out."


	21. Chapter 21

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"To your feet, inmates!"

The officer's voice bellowed out and echoed around the cement space. Daryl had the immediate mental reaction of a child and had to fight the urge to growl, roll over, and ignore the command. That wouldn't work here and he knew it. Even half asleep, he knew it. He wrestled himself out of the bed, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts, and stood somewhat at attention beside his cot. Around him, everyone else did the same—and some of them didn't sleep even as well-dressed as he did.

"Too damn early," he muttered. He heard T-Dog snort. He was the only one close enough to have heard the words.

"Too damn early for somebody stays out half the damn night," T-Dog responded, his voice equally as low. "If you were digging under some damn fence with a spoon and we're about to all get busted for it—I'm gonna be first in line to kick your ass."

Daryl snickered at the words, but his stomach dropped. What if he and Carol had been caught? What if she thought the location was secure and it wasn't? What if they hadn't busted them last night because they wanted everyone to pay for the breach of security?

Daryl had already decided—and he'd had time to do it while wandering back in the dark—that he didn't care if he got busted. He didn't care if he got flagged and landed himself back in their hell-hole, but he didn't want her going back there. He especially didn't want her going back there for him.

But worse than the fear of punishment was the fear of being found out and being stripped of the place. Daryl hadn't made it back to his bunk before he was daydreaming of the next time they might escape in the middle of the night to take advantage of the seclusion of the closet. At this point, the dirty closet held a place in his mind where he might imagine it to be an island oasis. The best thing that had happened to him in as long as he could remember had happened in that dirty ass closet—and he didn't want to lose it.

He hadn't wanted to let go of Carol. She'd led him back to the bathroom, just as she'd promised, and he'd grabbed her before she could slip away and fade into the shadows to slip back to her bunk. He'd pulled her into the shower with him. He'd kissed her. And she'd stared at him, big eyed, and she'd waited. She returned his kisses, but she'd done so quickly and tentatively. She'd been always aware that they might be watched. She'd been always aware that they might be caught. The magic had been broken.

And Daryl had finally let her go even if it was the last thing he'd wanted to do. He could still feel her body against his—his mind holding tightly to the sense memory.

Worse than any physical punishment they could give him, at this point, would be the punishment of knowing that it would never happen again. They'd never sneak away again together because their hideaway was gone. He'd never hold her again.

But he wouldn't let on to that right now. Not to T-Dog. At least, certainly not with the guards in the room. If they hadn't discovered it, there was no way he was going to give them anything to work with.

"Look at you..." the officer sneered as he walked around, weaving in and out between the rows of cots. He barked a few quick and loud commands that people stop talking lest they be punished, and then he continued with his strange morning "inspection". "Look at you. Animals. All of you. You smell like ass. You look like we just dragged your sorry ass hides out of the woods yesterday. You're a disgrace even to the other beasts in this place. The reason we have fleas is you sorry assholes."

At the suggestion of fleas, which Daryl knew most of them had to some degree or another, Daryl moved to scratch an itch that surged up. He jerked his hand back when the officer commanded that they remain still. He hadn't given them permission to move.

"When you hear your number—if you hear your number? You step forward. To the door. Accept your new uniforms from Officer Shales. You do not put these new uniforms on your nasty, filthy bodies. You go, as you are, into the hallway and you form a straight line," he said. He stopped and drew a line in the air with his finger. "That's what the hell a line is, mutts. You wait there. Your hair will be cut and you'll be issued a razor and your very own, personal bar of soap. You will shower and you will wash your nasty ass cracks. You will shave and you will discard your razors with the officer on duty. _Then_ you will dress in your new uniforms and you will wait until you are told where the hell you can go and what the hell you can do. If your number isn't called, you can file out in the other direction. Officer Washington will take you to breakfast."

Daryl looked at T-Dog and furrowed his brow. He didn't know if such things as this were common or not in Region Thirty Three. A simple moment of glancing in the direction of his friend told him that, if they were, they were something that happened prior to T-Dog's arrival. In fact, glancing around the bunk, Daryl could say that anyone looked particularly comfortable with what was happening.

His stomach churned. He didn't know whether to hope that his number was called or hope that it wasn't. But he wasn't given very long to worry about it.

" _6245_."

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"I want breakfast," Michonne protested loudly.

Carol laughed to herself and covered her mouth with her hand quickly. The sound of her laughter, though, didn't make a dent in the din that filled the shower room.

"You'll eat when you're told to eat, LC456F," Officer Lennels insisted.

The woman was doing her best to keep her patience with them all. It was clear that she thought it was too early to be up and about. It was still dark outside, from what Carol could tell, and already she'd had a haircut—and she was about thirtieth in line. Now they were all being forced to take turns in the cold water of the showers and wash thoroughly and shave—something that had brought about a lot of grumbling. After all, if nobody was touching it, why did it have to be hairless?

"LC457F," Andrea said around a mouthful of toothpaste. "I'm LC456F." She lowered her voice then and made eye contact with Carol. "God—don't they know anything around here? How many of Michonne's flags have I done time for?"

" _LC456F_ , you're headed for a flag all your own," Officer Lennels warned. Andrea laughed to herself at the warning, but she didn't speak again. At least, not at the moment.

"But we're getting breakfast before we leave?" Michonne asked.

"Where are we going?" Lisette asked.

"Hell," Andrea responded, immediately putting her hand over her mouth when she got a warning look from the officer who was now trying not to laugh. Some of them, after all, had a harder time than other officers when it came to pretending that they couldn't connect at all with the inmates they took charge over.

"In a handbasket," Carol said, taking her chances. She was rewarded with a stifled bit of laughter from the officer instead of with a flag. She'd known it was a fifty-fifty chance either way.

"Finish up, inmates," Officer Lennels said. "Get dried and dressed. Time's ticking."

"What about breakfast?" Michonne insisted again. "I'm serious—if I don't eat something? I'll throw up on your nice clean uniform."

"And don't nobody want that," another woman said from the row of sinks opposite where Carol was finishing with brushing her teeth.

"I've not been briefed about your meals," Officer Lennels said. "You'll be fed, but when and where isn't for me to know. You've got three minutes. Another group has to move in."

Realizing that Officer Lennels was serious, and not wanting to push one of the few kind officers to losing her temper, Carol whistled to give her own informal command that play time was over. She took the lead herself, walking over to get one of the barely-larger-than-washrags towels they were offered and dried off before starting back, naked, to put on the new uniform that she'd been issued.

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Daryl stepped back a half a step to absorb the impact of the paper bag being slammed into his chest. His hands reached to take it so that it wouldn't fall to the floor. He made no move to open it and examine its contents. It might contain a bomb, but he wouldn't know unless they told him. Everyone around him, too, stood at attention other than the movements they made to take possession of the bag that was thrust at them.

"These are your rations for the day," the officer bellowed. "You will be issued nothing more until dinner. You will eat only when you are given recess to do so. You will remain quiet, focused, and attentive."

He broke off and stopped, for a moment, his forward progress with the small cart that he was pushing—it had once been a mail cart—that was loaded down with the paper bags.

"I know you animals can't handle that, but you'd be smart to the best damn job at it you can. Every flag you get today counts against your ass double and you'll work full sets off consecutively."

 _Two strikes, you're dead—or you'll wish you were._

Daryl made a mental note to be particularly careful today. It was clear that the officers weren't playing. Whatever was going on was serious. A slip up today—over something as stupid as sneezing when you didn't have permission—could land you with some serious brain injury or, at the very least, a nice situation of internal injury like Andrea's last taming had brought on. Today was not a day to piss people off in Region Thirty Three.

"You will keep your ignorant ass mouths closed," the officer continued shouting when the squeaking of his cart started up again. "You will not speak unless you are spoken to and you will not ask questions unless you are given permission. When we pass through that door, you will remain in a straight line and you will look straight ahead. You will be the best damn behaved bunch of animals since Barnum and Bailey's last closed their doors."

Someone cleared his throat—though Daryl didn't know who it was and didn't lean forward to search them out—and then they dared to speak. After all, they weren't through the doors yet.

"Before we go—do we get to know where we're going?" The brave inmate asked.

"You're going right where the front of the line leads you, inmate," the officer responded. "Unless you get your ass sent to corrections for insolence first. Shut your mouth. And that's a final order."

Daryl tightened his fist around the top of the bag of food that he held and he sucked in a breath. He didn't know where he was going, and he should be worried about that. He knew he should be. But, and he was hoping that he wasn't condemning them both to some kind of yet-to-be-imagined hell, he could only hope that wherever it was, their groups would merge again and Carol would be coming with him.


	22. Chapter 22

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Samirah took her time making her coffee at the small station they set up for her. She stirred it longer than she had to—as if ten or fifteen more swirls of the spoon in the cup would make some sort of difference to the flavor—and then she took her time simply catching her breath. She was a behind the scenes kind of person. She always had been. She'd always preferred to blend into the crowd rather than to take the limelight. She wasn't, by nature, much of a public speaker.

Of course, this engagement wasn't exactly like a making an important address to a group of higher up people. This was simply speaking to prisoners, as she'd been reminded when one of the guards caught her catching her breath to soothe herself on the way here, and that was the same as essentially giving a speech at a pound. Just as she shouldn't have too many, or too lofty, expectations for herself, she shouldn't have high expectations for those whom she'd be addressing.

But Samirah had to have high hopes for them. She did have high hopes for them. They were her pet project, after all. Someone had to believe in them and it seemed that job was one that fell right into her lap.

From where she was standing, partially hidden behind a curtain in an auditorium type space that was less of an impressive auditorium than most elementary schools boasted, Samirah listened to the din as the inmates were moved in, group by group, and seated. There was a hissing murmur of whispers. Each of them was speaking as low as they possibly could to those around them, but in large numbers even a low whisper soon grew to be a loud noise. Every now and again, Samirah jumped when an officer's voice boomed out over the dull hiss and commanded silence, respect, or something else—all with the threat of punishment if they didn't get what they wanted.

And finally it was her time to go out.

She finished the cup of coffee she'd been drinking and left the coffee cup on the edge of the table. Holding something like that made it apparent when her hands were shaking and she didn't want that to be perceptible. She gathered up the notes she'd brought with her and she took the bottle of water that had been left for her earlier. She sucked in the last of the calming breaths that she'd allow herself and she returned to her spot by the curtains to wait until she was asked to come out.

There was no announcement, though. The officers kept the inmates under control, but they didn't tell them why they were there. They didn't tell them anything about what was happening. They didn't let them know that Samirah was stepping out, like the Wizard of Oz, from behind the curtain to tell them about their future. So, without announcement, she finally did.

There came no applause and no fanfare, but equally there was no hissing and booing. In front of Samirah, packed into the room and seated in the folding chairs that they'd had brought in from a number of places, were the inmates that she'd requested—at least those available at the moment. A quick glance over them said they were well-cared for. They looked clean, for the most part, and seemed to be in decent health. Samirah put her things on the small table in the middle of the "stage" area, and was only beginning to look at her paperwork when John Hokes walked up and touched her arm.

"We can lower the projector," he said. "They got the kinks worked out."

Samirah looked at him and nodded.

"At the beginning?" He asked. "Make sure you've got their attention?"

Samirah nodded again.

"It's fine," she responded, her voice as equally low as his. "It doesn't matter when."

He nodded once more and then looked behind him—maybe there was someone he was searching out that Samirah couldn't see.

"I'll give the introduction," Samirah said. "At least—let them know what they're watching."

"Fine," John said. "We'll make sure it's all ready to go.

John walked off and left Samirah standing there, alone, once more. There was no sound from the audience other than the slightly distinguishable rustle of paper and a few barked orders that the inmates stop whatever it was that was causing the crinkling noise. Finally Samirah was ready to address them, ignoring entirely the lowering of the screen behind her and the adjustments that John's men were making on the projection devices.

"I am Samirah Lafram," Samirah said. "I am from the Special Projects for Captivity Holdings and Inmate Rehabilitation's Unit. You may all call me Samirah. Or Sam. Or Sammi. I am part of the first wave and this is the year 16 A.T."

She paused for a moment, trying to judge her audience, but there was no movement and there was no response. She swallowed and glanced toward the hissing sound of John calling her attention. She shook her head at him. She'd let him know when she was ready for him. She wasn't ready for him yet. Turning her eyes away from him, she dropped them back to the paper in front of her.

"You have all been gathered here today because you're part of a very special project. The project—even though official names aren't important—is called _Wave Thirty Three_. Everyone you see around you will be part of the project. You'll be joined by approximately twenty five other inmates, coming from areas of the country, that will also be part of the project. Their arrival is expected sometime after the relocation," Samirah continued. She paused again and took in her audience. For a moment, her stomach churned. This time, though, it wasn't because she was forced to stand in front of so many people and speak to them. This time it was because she forced to stand in front of so many _people_ and she could only imagine what their lives must be like. She didn't want to imagine what their lives must be like.

And though she was there to help them, and though the special project could make their lives better, she was afraid that she didn't have the faith in the project that she should have.

"There's time for all that," Samirah said softly, too softly for anyone beyond the first row or two to hear her. She sucked in another breath, for a different time now than before, and continued her address. "The captivity facilities are being overrun," Samirah said. "There are five major captivity facilities throughout the country and there are countless smaller holding facilities. Region Thirty Three is now, officially, the third largest in the country. Only Area Nineteen and Zone Seventy Six are greater in size. But as captivity continues to be on the rise, and the wild zones are being tamed, the populations are growing too large even for these large facilities. Prisoners are being shuffled around and they're spending more time in the smaller holding facilities than they once did—but space is just running out. So—some facilities are taking measurements to lower their population numbers."

Swallowing back the burning sensation in her throat, Samirah gestured with a wave of her hand toward John. He nodded at her and a moment later the projector they'd been working with sputtered to life.

"This is footage, compiled, that's been on the news," Samirah said. "This is—humane euthanization." The words caught in her throat. "It's not government regulated _yet_ and so it differs from location to location to deal with the population issues."

Samirah watched the audience and the screen, her attention darting from one to the other quickly, as the images started to appear. There were some brief cases of lethal injection that were shown. Those locations, though, that had used it were already done with it. It was too expensive. It was too slow. There were images of the one or two facilities that had decided to make a spectacle of things and had hung their wilds—those who would not assimilate—publicly. The government had stopped those after the first footage had appeared on the news—but it was included here for the shock value. Then there was the preferred method. One after another, the footage flashed across the screen from location after location—some of the wilds were put down before they were even transferred from smaller facilities to the larger ones. If they were deemed "unlikely to assimilate" then there wasn't any need to worry with them.

They were brought out in and shot in the head. The cost of population control was one bullet. It ended their lives and kept them from rising again. It was fast, it was cost efficient, and the smell of burning human flesh—from the clean-up efforts—served as a reminder of what could happen. And, apparently, it was a reminder that even wilds could understand.

When the projection stopped, there was some murmuring in the audience. Samirah was content to let it go on—after all the images were horrifying and this was the reality that some in this room could be facing—but the officers quickly got the noise under control. Samirah waited a moment to begin speaking, not wanting her voice to come out shaky, and finally she addressed the group again.

"Yours is a savior mission," Samirah said. "If you—don't like what you saw here? If you—have the emotions that they say you don't have? If you have the ability to feel the fear that they say you can't? Then you'll understand the importance of what we're going to be doing. You and me, together. We'll be doing this...together."

Samirah sighed. She believed the people in front of her were human. She believed that, although they may be traumatized by any number of things, they were all fully human. Maybe, she thought, the disconnect that was attributed to them wasn't owing to their status as sub-human. Perhaps it was owing to their mental state. Maybe it was simply a survival mechanism. Certainly, born human, one couldn't simply become an animal that was seen as even more void of emotions, thoughts, and feelings than a house cat or a lap dog.

"Capture facilities were always aimed at inmate rehabilitation. The goal behind each facility is to render you one hundred percent a functioning human being. The ultimate goal is to release you into society as a productive member—someone who functions just the same as everyone else who is already out there. Someone who might, one day, be holding a position no different than my own. However, to date there have been only forty five people released from capture facilities. Forty five. The inmates were released from National Park Facility. It took three days for them to attack Bedford, a small town thirty miles south of National Park, where they killed a dozen people, injured over a hundred, a burned most of the town to the ground. All forty five were eventually found and killed. All of them were accounted for. Since that release? Not a single capture facility has released inmates. Not one. The belief became—once wild, always wild. So I'm here—and you're going to help me—to prove that idea wrong. I have specially chosen each of you with a team that has helped me assess you. You'll undergo more assessment, as the project is put into place, but I can promise you that no real harm will come to you. Not if you cooperate. We're going out on a limb here. The government is leaning toward euthanization for captures. Eventually for all captures. And that means all of you. Unless we can prove that, given the resources and the opportunities, you can become fully functioning members of society."

There was silence. Absolute silence. Samirah felt like she could hear her own blood running in her veins because there was nothing else to hear. There weren't even the customary sniffles or throat clearings coming from a group so large. She swallowed and it sounded, to her, like it was almost as loud as an explosion.

"If anyone here feels that they can't go through with this, then—please—raise your hand. An officer will take you out. If you remain, it means that you're accepting your role as part of _Wave Thirty Three_. You're acknowledging that you believe yourself to be human. You believe—that you deserve some of the rights of citizens, and eventually all of them, and it means that you believe that—even if you're classified as semi-docile—you can come back from all that you've seen and all that you've done. If you stay, it means you're willing to work with me."

Samirah watched as a few hands went up. She held her breath and watched as officers gathered together those that were backing out of the project already and pushed them toward the auditorium exits to return them to the prison. She waited as long as she could to make sure that they were all cleared out before she spoke again.

"Anyone else?" She asked.

She scanned her eyes over the people in front of her—gaps in the crowd now from those who hadn't felt that, for one reason or another, they could go through with this—and finally she accepted that the group in front of her would be the people that she was working with.

And when they came? She would meet the others being brought in from the other facilities—inmates who were chosen, in some ways, because each of them was on a list to be first in line, for some criteria or another, for the eradication of semi-dociles—that would complete her group.

"Fine," Samirah said when she was ready to begin again. "Then all of you who have stayed, welcome aboard. You'll be given a recess. You should be fed. You'll have time, should you choose to do so, to back out of the project if you change your mind. Then? We'll meet later to go over some of the expectations."

There was a slight rustle of voices that the officers tried to quiet and Samirah overheard someone should something about having a question. She waved her hand at all of them and loudly addressed them and requested their silence. Slowly the din dropped down again.

"You'll have plenty of time for questions," Samirah said. "I promise you that. And—I'll do my best to answer them all. But—you must understand, and one day you will, that not even full citizens have all the answers."

There was a slight rumble more, but Samirah needed a moment. She needed their recess to regroup. She needed to prepare. So she shook her head at them, sure that no one even saw it.

"You're dismissed," she said more loudly than she'd said any of the other things. Then she gathered up what she had and she exited the space the same way that she'd entered, not even stopping to speak to John who was waiting for her.


	23. Chapter 23

AN: Here we are, another chapter here.

I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"It's fuckin' mad," Daryl commented. "Hanging people? Shooting them in the head like that? I thought that shit was supposed to be over when we were captured."

"It was only just beginning when we were captured," Andrea said. She shook her head at him. "They shot me without any remorse when they captured me. I never believed them again that they weren't going to hurt us."

"You never believed them before that," Michonne pointed out.

Andrea gave her something of a warning look and Michonne backed down for a moment. She knew when to push Andrea and when not to. Right now? With this many guards around and the chance that anything could happen to them to keep the peace? It wasn't the right time to be pushing anyone's buttons.

"You heard her," Carol offered. "If we cooperate? If we—do whatever it is that we're supposed to do? It means we don't get hanged. It means we don't get shot in the head. And it might mean that others don't either."

"If it's not all a set up," Andrea said. "Or some kind of elaborate lie."

Lisette clicked her tongue.

"I don't think it's a set up," she said. "Think about it. Why would they go through all this trouble to trick us into something just to kill us? We just saw proof that they've got no problem cutting straight to the chase. The next time they tell us to line up for something and don't explain what it is? We could be heading out to meet a firing squad. They wouldn't go through all of this to trick us into getting into that line. This is a legitimate project."

"We just don't know what kind of project," Michonne said. She shook her head. "I don't know if it's worth the risk."

"I don't know if there's another option," Carol said. "What are they going to ask us to do? The worst that happens is that we die trying to do what they want—but if they're going to shoot us anyway?"

Daryl pointed at her and nodded his head.

"No, she's right," Daryl said. "She's right. Hell—you tell me you're gonna shoot me or—or I gotta jump outta damn plane or something for my freedom? I'd rather jump. At least the whole damn time I'm falling to the ground I can dream about the fact that I might live through it."

There was some exchange of glances. Carol had already made her mind up. Whether or not anyone joined her, she was going to join the project. The images they'd shown had turned her stomach. It was cold, hard proof that they thought of them as nothing more than animals. In fact, maybe they thought of them as less than animals. After all, there had once been places dedicated to caring for animals until they couldn't any longer—and then the animals had at least been dealt with, as far as Carol knew, with a bit of humanity. Lining people up to murder them—and that's what she'd seen in the images—together in piles was anything but humane.

"I'm doing it," she said, finally. She nodded when they looked at her. "I am. I'm doing it."

"You don't even know what it is," Michonne said.

"And it doesn't matter," Carol said. She shrugged. "I'm terrified of what it might be. That's true. But I'm even more terrified of living the life that I've been living—always knowing what's coming. And always wondering what stupid flag I get for—for looking at somebody wrong—will be the flag that gets me a ticket to the front of the execution line. I'm doing it. I don't give a damn what it is. And—if someone else gets out of all this because of me? At least I've done something with my life."

"I'm in too," Daryl said. He shrugged too. "I'm in. There just ain't no other way to be."

Andrea growled and then sighed.

"I'm in too," she said. "They're going to kill me at the prison anyway. I might as well die a semi-free animal."

Carol looked at Michonne, but she knew that the moment Andrea said she was in, the decision had been made for Michonne. Michonne didn't offer any words, but she confirmed that she was in with a nod of her head. Lisette was the only other member of their small clan that had found them in the mass confusion of the "recess" given to them and she looked around like she was struggling with the decision.

"I'm in," she said. "I'm going to die soon enough anyway. And—I always had the dream that I might do it on my terms. Even if they're going to kill me, I might outsmart them and go before they had planned."

Carol laughed to herself, even though she saw a slightly disturbed look cross Daryl's face. Lisette laughed then, a rolling laugh in her throat, and Daryl looked a little less bothered. He hadn't learned her sense of humor yet—and it was something of an adjustment at times—but he'd get there. At least, he would if they even really saw each other again after they went in and confirmed that they weren't getting on the buses with the rest of the people who were choosing to back out of the project.

They were going forward, wherever that might take them.

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"Please—everyone's questions are going to be answered," Samirah said. "But I'm only going to be able to get to them if you ask them in an organized manner."

"What—are—we—supposed—to—do?" Someone near the front of the room asked, drawing out each word in an over-dramatic way, eliciting laughter that the guards quickly quieted.

"You're going to live in a brand new community," Samirah responded, clearly unbothered by the heckling. Carol didn't know how old the woman was, but Carol thought maybe she was in her mid-thirties. She was tan skinned and her dark hair was tied up, but what escaped the elastics and clips were dark ringlets. In her manner of carrying herself, she seemed very well put together. There was a calm about her that Carol wasn't used to seeing in people that weren't captures themselves. She wasn't high strung around all of them—not like many of the guards were. "It's a—gated community."

There was some laughter and, seemingly in anticipation of it, Samirah laughed too and swung her foot while she sat perched on the stool where she'd taken a seat in front of them all.

"Gated like Region Thirty Three?" Someone asked.

Samirah nodded and hummed. She lifted the microphone again that she was speaking into and hesitated a moment before speaking.

"Yes and no," she said. "You're still inmates. This is a pre-release program. That means that you will start as inmates, but inmates with more freedom than you have now. As the program progresses? Assuming that everything goes according to plan and everyone cooperates? Then you'll slowly gain more rights and freedoms. Finally? It will be a gated community like any other out there."

"Will there be guards?" Someone shouted.

"Absolutely," Samirah said. "At least—for a while."

"Flags?" Another voice rang out.

"There will be a disciplinary system in place," Samirah responded. "I'll have to leave that to someone else to explain. John Hokes will be talking to you about that when we break off. When you meet with him? He'll let you know a little about that. My knowledge of it is limited, but it'll work on more of three strikes and you're out kind of deal."

There was some hissing and booing. Three strikes, assuming they were like three flags, were too easy to get. Depending on the officer in charge, a good case of the sneezes could and would get someone thrown out of the project. Samirah raised the microphone back to her lips and smiled to herself before she spoke into it—she seemed to be enjoying herself more than feeling the need to snap at the dozen officers there to keep control of those who hadn't left after recess.

"There will be a trial system as well," Samirah said. "The strikes—or however it works—won't be arbitrary. If you're rejected from the community? For any reason? You'll return to Region Thirty Three and continue to serve your time as an inmate."

"Until someone puts a bullet in our brains," someone barked.

Samirah's smile, and any hint it had ever been there, dropped. She shook her head slightly.

"If the project works? No one will suffer that. None of you, and nobody else," Samirah said.

"So you believe in this?" Michonne barked out, her voice booming over several others who were trying to shout out questions. It got Samirah's attention because, despite the fact she probably couldn't see Michonne clearly from where she was sitting, she turned her head and looked almost exactly in her direction.

"I have to," Samirah said. "I have to believe in this. And I do. I believe—in the project. I believe—very much—in the idea behind it. I believe that you—that all of you—are human beings. And—I believe that we have to do what we can to make the capture facilities what they were supposed to be in the first place. That responsibility falls on our shoulders."

"You mean _our_ shoulders," Michonne barked loudly again.

Samirah stopped for a moment.

"No," she said. "I mean on our shoulders. Mine too. Each officer that will be there? Working in the community? We've worked on screening them to find the most sympathetic to the project. Each inmate going in? Even those coming from other locations? Has been specially chosen. Even the ones that I choose to fill the spots of those leaving, I'll choose carefully and purposefully. If this project falls through? And humane euthanization of wilds and semi-dociles becomes commonplace? You'll all be executed, but I'll live the rest of my life with your blood on my hands or—at the very least—on my conscience."

She stood up from her position on the stool and walked the few steps that it took to bring her to the edge of the stage like platform that she was on.

"I believe in this project. I have to. But in order for it to work? That won't be enough. All of you have to believe in it too and you have to want it to work," Samirah said.

Carol felt her chest tighten. She swallowed against a lump in her throat that she'd barely felt as it began to form. It had risen up, out of nowhere, because of something in the woman's voice. This woman had no reason to care what happened to them. Not really. She was a first wave citizen. She was a non-wild. She hadn't lived the lives that any of them had lived—out there for so long—and she could go straight from here and back to her life. She probably had very little on her conscious at all. She probably hadn't seen or done half of what they'd done, but she was choosing to take on the guilt if this went wrong. She was choosing to care what happened to them.

 _She was one of the first people that Carol had met in authority that seemed to care what happened to them._

It inspired a certain loyalty in Carol.

Carol raised her hands to her face and cupped them around her mouth, making a megaphone out of them to guarantee that her voice would carry all the way to the woman.

"We're in," she shouted. "What do we have to do?"

Samirah searched her out and, unashamed, Carol waved her hand in the air to help her to find her in the crowd. She didn't know if Samirah would even be able to see that, but the woman did smile and point in her direction when Carol waved. She brought the microphone back to her mouth.

"From here? We'll break off into groups to make it easier for you to speak to everyone. Small groups. Six to eight? Once we're set up, the officers will guide you through so that you can meet with each of the people who has something to say to you about the project. We'll explain all the basics to you. Tonight? You'll be bussed back to Region Thirty Three. You'll pack your things, whatever that might be, and after breakfast you'll be taken to the community. It isn't very far. Construction is still underway on some of the houses, but it'll be complete before they're all necessary. Then? Tomorrow I'll be there to meet you—along with the officers and a few others that you'll meet—and we'll get started with the rest of your lives. Your _new_ lives."


	24. Chapter 24

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"Everyone will have jobs. It's the first step to being a productive citizen. You have to be able to contribute things to society. One of those things is a service of some type," the officer named Don Wallace explained.

Daryl had never seen the man before. The way he said his name left Daryl wondering if Don was his first name or part of his last. He ran the whole thing together like it was one long word with hardly any breaks in between: _Officerdonwallace_. He was black, clean shaved, and he hadn't missed any meals within the past few years. He seemed on board with the project, though, and he seemed a lot less aggressive than some of the other officers that Daryl had come into contact with. He was the second officer in the round of them that they'd all talk to. The first, a woman whose name Daryl had already forgotten, had talked to them about housing and she'd seemed more like a real estate agent than anything else. Maybe she didn't realize they weren't buying these places and they'd take what the hell they were given.

They'd been allowed to break themselves up into small groups. This way, as Samirah had explained, they could pass through to listen to each person without causing too much trouble or risking the safety of anyone. They were wild, after all, until proven tame and that meant that precautions had to be taken. Too many of them together, without enough guards, and they could be in for trouble. Breaking themselves up, at least, meant that Daryl knew most of the people he was with. Daryl was grouped with Carol, Michonne, Andrea, Lisette, T-Dog, and another male inmate that had introduced himself by his number until prompted to give the name "Bill" as something easier to call him—at least among the inmates.

"What kinda jobs you wanting us to do?" Daryl asked.

Officer Don Wallace looked at him and shrugged. He spoke, though, signaling that he wasn't dismissing Daryl's question entirely.

"That's going to depend on you," he said. "We're going to be open to just about anything. The goal is to get the community running like a free standing part of society. It's to prove, in a microcosm, that you could exist entirely on your own. Naturally, it means that most jobs will be needed."

Daryl could see Michonne nodding. She was watching every move of the people that spoke to them. She was hanging on every word. If they missed anything, they could probably count on her to recount it back to all of them with the accuracy of a tape recorder. Daryl wasn't sure if she was just that interested in what was happening or if she was looking for some kind of sign that it was trick. Thus far, Daryl hadn't heard anything that he didn't think was more straightforward than anything they'd heard so far and at least seemed legitimate.

"So that's it?" Michonne asked, glancing out the corner of her eye at Daryl to confirm that he was done asking whatever it was that he had to contribute. "That's all you want from us? Go in here and prove we can _survive_?"

Officer Don Wallace shrugged again and nodded his head. He laughed to himself.

"I know you think that there's some kind of joke to this," he said, "but the truth is that there just isn't. This is what you were intended to do all along. You were intended to go into society and function again. To rebuild and—survive, as you say. The community is designed to show you can do just that."

"That's what we were doing _out there_!" Andrea barked.

Carol quickly reached a hand across and put it, palm down, on Andrea's chest. She pushed the woman back, reminding her quietly that outbursts—even if they felt warranted—might get them into trouble. Andrea calmed visibly, but her face was still twisted up in the confusion and frustration that she was clearly feeling.

"That's what we were doing out there," she repeated, this time with her voice at a reasonable level. "Before we were uprooted. Before we were dragged from our camps with—weapons and _whips_ and handcuffs. We were surviving."

Officer Don Wallace nodded his head slowly. He moved his hands to fold them in front of him on the table.

"You were surviving like _animals_ ," he said. "We want to show that you can survive like _people_." The man sighed. "Now listen, I'm not the enemy. Before the turn? I was just the manager of a jewelry store. I lost people before we ever made it to a safe-space. I've had to rebuild my life. I chose to become an officer because I wanted to help those that weren't _able_ to get to the safe-spaces and had to live longer out there. I wanted to help those that had to _go wild_ just to _survive_. I'm on this project because I still want to help. Out there you were surviving. In here? We want to teach you to _live_."

Michonne moved her hands from under the table and she started to clap. She started to clap slowly and rhythmically. Daryl looked at her and she leaned back in her chair, smirking at Officer Don Wallace.

"That was beautiful," Michonne said. "Really... _heartwarming_. But you'll have to understand if we don't believe it. If we don't think we can. We were _captured_. Nobody found us out there, asked us to come nicely, and invited us into warm and safe environments. We were threatened. We were harmed. We came because they were going to _kill_ us if we didn't. Since then? We've been incarcerated and beaten. We've been starved out. We've been _tortured_. You'll understand if we don't believe that there are no catches to this—plan—that all we've got to do is go and _play house_ for a little while for our freedom."

Officer Don Wallace sighed and shook his head. He leaned toward Michonne.

"Listen, inmate," he said.

"Michonne," she said, interrupting him. "We're _people_ , remember? We have names. If we're not people? I'm LC457F."

"Late Capture?" Officer Don Wallace asked. Michonne shifted in her chair and nodded. The man's expression changed slightly. "I'm not here to tell you every last detail. And I'm not here to tell you that things haven't been done differently than they were ever intended to be done. Things still aren't functioning the way we intended, and that's why we're here. But if you're not going to cooperate? Then there's no need in you moving forward. It won't help you or anyone else if you wreck Wave Thirty Three for everyone involved."

"Nobody's going to wreck anything," Carol interjected quickly. "It's not what we want. We're just—cautious."

Officer Don Wallace's face relaxed with Carol's tone of voice. He nodded at her.

"Be cautious," he said. "But don't attack those of us who are trying to help. I'm here to talk you through what you want to know about jobs. The rest? It isn't my business."

Carol nodded, obviously trying to soothe the man, and then her eyes darted around while she thought of something else to say to him.

"How long, after we get there? How long before we—know what we're expected to do? Before we know what our jobs are?" Carol asked. "And—what if there are too many people for one job and not enough for another?"

Seeing that he was getting cooperation, Officer Don Wallace relaxed. He sat back in his chair. He folded his hands, now, across his oversized stomach. And Daryl listened as he went back to detailing out what would be expected of them in their new role.

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"Home building is a key part of societal construction," the woman said, reading from the piece of paper. Carol noticed as it shook gently in her fingers. She was nervous and Carol wasn't sure why. She was reading from the paper like it was a script. Maybe it was there simply because she was nervous—maybe it was because she wasn't much of a public speaker—maybe there was another reason.

The woman speaking to them was a doctor. She forgot to introduce herself upon entering the room, but Carol recognized her. She was one of the physicians that cycled through Region Thirty Three. She tended anything that needed caring for—from the common cold to injuries sustained during taming— and Carol had seen her more than once, she was sure of it, even if she couldn't remember specifically why.

Also, seated across from them, was the woman who urged them all to call her Samirah. She smiled and nodded her head as the doctor read from her script. Whatever the reason for the doctor's nerves, Samirah didn't seem shaken at all, even if she did seem a little exhausted by the whole thing.

There was no telling, though, how many groups they'd already been through. Carol counted that she and her group had seen seven different people—this was the eighth and, she assumed, final meeting—and they'd waited in between those. The information they had was still relatively limited and Carol knew that they'd be trying to figure it all out together at the first opportunity they were given to speak freely and privately. At the moment it was like having all the pieces to a puzzle but still not being sure what the final picture was really supposed to be.

"The government defines good citizens as those who are law abiding and contribute greatly through community building and through societal advancement and growth to the fullness of their abilities," the doctor continued, still reading aloud from her script.

"That's really nice," Daryl interjected. "But what the hell does it mean?"

T-Dog snorted to Daryl's right and quickly covered his mouth to hide the smile that would give away his amusement. Carol stifled her own laugh. Everyone they'd spoken to seemed to present things in a convoluted manner before they were finally forced to simplify things down to their basic meaning.

 _Those are pretty words, but what does it mean for us?_

Samirah took over for the doctor. The woman who had been reading to them sat back. The task of presenting to them taken from her, she looked visibly more relaxed. Samirah furrowed her brow as she spoke to them, attempting to simplify what they needed to know.

"The important thing for the government is that citizens are law abiding. Law abiding citizens means that we don't have problems with crimes. We don't have problems with..." Samirah started.

"People bucking the government," Michonne interjected. Samirah nodded at her.

"Law abiding citizens live normal, peaceful lives," Samirah said. "Boring lives, if you will. They work. They live together in harmony. They have—barbecues and meetings and celebrations."

"Pleasantville," Daryl said. "Mayberry." He got a nod as well. "But that don't exist," he added.

"It does now," Samirah said. "At least, for the most part it does. Right now? Society is functioning at a level where there are very few non-wilds who require imprisonment of any kind."

"So everyone in prison is wild?" Carol asked. "Or..."

Samirah raised her eyebrows at Carol and nodded for her to continue.

"Or every time someone does something that the government doesn't like," Carol said, "they just classify it all under the name of being wild?"

Samirah didn't confirm or deny what Carol said with words, but Carol saw something flash quickly in the woman's eyes. Suddenly, Carol wondered if the reason that the woman next to Samirah was nervous—the reason that quite a few of them had a somewhat strange air about them even—was that they were all being watched by someone. Carol swallowed. Her stomach churned.

 _Maybe even those who were free never really were._

Samirah sucked in a breath and started speaking again. She seemed to be simply ignoring Carol's question.

"Society is functioning on a supremely peaceful level right now," Samirah said. "To prove that you're all human, and that you can adapt to that, you'll have to show that you can be peaceful and productive. You'll work your jobs. You'll—do normal things."

"But there's a catch," Michonne said. Samirah shook her head.

"Not a catch," she said. "That's all—it's all just what it is. And law abiding citizens teach good lessons to their children. They raise law abiding citizens. And—with the population of wilds consistently larger than those who are functioning in society, the government is _promoting_ the growth of society. The expansion of numbers of law abiding citizens."

T-Dog laughed, almost a low growl in his throat.

"You want us to repopulate the Earth," he said.

"Not alone," Samirah said. She held her hand up at Michonne, cutting her off before Michonne could utter any words. All she had to do was lean forward and Samirah seemed to know what was coming. "The government's hope is that law abiding citizens will, in what they define as fruitful relationships, bring up more law abiding citizens. There's no rule. And since there's no law, or rule, saying that they _have_ to have children, there's no enforcement of the rule. It's a given that some women simply can't have children, but it _is_ seen as _preferable_ that families have children."

Carol's heart was pounding and she couldn't seem to find her own tongue. Her brain, at the moment, went spiraling out of control until she couldn't even find words to put into spoken language any of the thoughts she was having. Suddenly, she almost felt like she was on the verge of a panic attack, but she couldn't express herself. And, luckily, she didn't have to because Andrea shouted it out for her.

"What about the children we already had?!" Andrea spat, anger coming from somewhere deep inside her and far beyond the discussion that was taking place in the room. "What about the children that you took from us? That they took from us?"

Immediately, the officer in the room was on Andrea and held her with her arms behind her back, pinning her down to the chair she was sitting in. She wasn't fighting him, though, even if her face showed her anger.

Samirah, across the table, looked a little less settled than she had.

"You've got to calm down," she said, her voice remaining fairly even keeled. "If we remain calm, we can discuss things..."

"What about our children?" Carol asked, suddenly finding her own voice thanks to Andrea's outburst. "That's all we want to know about. Please. Nobody has told us anything—and now? What about our children?"

Samirah looked at her and she looked over at Andrea who, though she was still restrained, was showing no actual signs of trying to do anything physical against anyone.

"There's someone else here," Samirah said. "Just to talk to those who were captured with children. You'll see her before you go. For now? We have to finish here."


	25. Chapter 25

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **Despite the heavy theme, I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"They were relocated. They were put in special institutions for the correction of formerly wild children with the hope that they'd be released to non-wilds to be raised up as law abiding citizens," the voice explained. It was almost robotic in quality and belonged to Adele Weaver, as she'd introduced herself to them.

"They were put in prison," one of the women in the room barked.

They were crowded into a room. It was tight and was beginning to smell simply because of the overloaded number of bodies and the sweat and hormones and everything else that the stress of the day had stirred up on all of them. There were twenty eight of them, thirty if Carol wasn't counting correctly. They were the women who were reported to have been captured with children. This didn't include, or at least Carol assumed it didn't, those who had birthed children within the prison walls—children born of different types of _illegal_ affairs. And, if she was honest, Carol was absolutely certain not all mothers were here and represented. They were only talking to them because the possible demands that they procreate, as part of Wave Thirty Three, would naturally bring them all to question the children that had been ripped from their arms already.

"Not prison," Adele said. "They were—juvenile centers. Not prison like Region Thirty Three."

"He was a _baby_!" Andrea snarled at the woman. Carol reached a hand over and rested it on Andrea's shoulder. Her daughter hadn't been a baby. Not like Andrea's. And Carol had come to the uneasy conclusion many years ago that she wouldn't ever see her again. She held out, somewhere in some small and dark corner of her mind, some hope that she _might_ , but she never even really believed herself.

Her daughter was gone. She'd been the only one left to protect her. And she'd protected her from a great number of things—her father, the dead that tried to eat them whenever they stopped to rest, other groups that they stumbled upon—but she'd failed to protect her from the government. She'd failed to protect her from the one force that she shouldn't have had to protect her from at all.

That would forever be on Carol's shoulders, but she'd come to accept it. And, from the looks of it, many of the other mothers in the room had come to accept it too. They were the calm ones. They sat, arms folded, and simply waited for something. Some, however, were having a little more trouble fully taking in the information.

"He was a _baby_ ," Andrea repeated, this time sounding more pathetic than truly dangerous. "How could you put a baby in prison? He couldn't even...he wasn't even a year old. He wasn't even... _six months_ old."

Michonne had come with Andrea into the meeting, declaring that the child was just as much hers as it was Andrea's, even if she hadn't been the one to give birth to him. Carol knew enough about the situation surrounding the birth of the boy—and the capture of the women—that she was glad that Samirah made the decision to allow Michonne sit in on the meeting.

After all, if it hadn't been for the baby, they may have never captured either of the women. At least, they wouldn't have ever captured them _alive_.

"The infants were taken to special facilities," Adele responded. "They were cared for and everything was done for them that could possibly be done to ensure that they were well-taken care of."

"When are we going to find out about them?" Carol asked.

Adele looked at her with some confusion on her features. She opened her mouth and stumbled and stuttered words fell out.

"When are we going to find out something real about them?" Carol clarified. "What you're telling me is that my daughter went to—to—to a juvenile detention center? And hers went to baby prison? But when do find out what _happened_ to them? When do we find out where they _are_?"

"When do we get them back?" Another woman asked, her own voice acting as a "hear, hear" to Carol's.

Samirah stood up from where she was leaning against a table in the room and walked to stand beside Adele. She dropped a hand on the woman's shoulder as though she were silently telling her that she would take over from there and then she cleared her throat and very obviously took a moment to collect her thoughts.

"As soon as I knew that we were going to do Wave Thirty Three, I knew that this was something that was going to have to be addressed," Samirah said. "The family building unit of the project is one that I knew was going to be— _touchy_ —for at least a few of you. And I'm going to be honest with you. Because—people aren't very honest with you. And they haven't been. And I'm sorry for that. You deserve for people...you deserve for _me_ to be honest with you."

Carol moved her hand from where she was now absentmindedly resting it on Andrea's lap. She sat back in her chair, her mind already spinning as it interpreted everything that Samirah wasn't saying and worked to prepare her for everything she was sure was about to be said. Beside her, Andrea shifted in her seat and Michonne put an arm around her shoulder—an arm that she wasn't asked to withdraw at the moment.

"All of you were selected for the project for a number of reasons. I'm not going to lie, though, and tell you that one of those reasons wasn't because you're still able to produce children. It was. Eventually? With the success of Wave Thirty Three? We'll be moving for freedom of all prisoners. We'll be moving for the rehabilitation and release of _all_ wilds. Wave Thirty Three is groundbreaking, though. It's got to be successful. It's got to be—even better than _successful_. It's got to be perfect. Exactly what the government wants it to be. There's a lot riding on that success. So, yes, every woman in the project was chosen—among other criteria—because she could potentially produce children," Samirah continued.

"We already know that," Michonne said.

Samirah stopped talking and looked directly at her.

"We're not wild," Michonne said. "And we're not stupid. In fact? You'll find that most of us are actually very intelligent. I know you can count, among our numbers, not just a few lawyers. I've met doctors who were in here. A judge. Police officers—from before the turn. Professors, elementary school teachers, scientists, journalists, soldiers—we're all here and accounted for. We're all bringing everything we knew before with us and everything we learned _out there_ with us. We're not stupid. And all of us, from the family planning speech today onward, have known that you're expecting us to _pop out_ children for you. Your perfect little citizens. And—hopefully—not to _contaminate_ them with our _wild_ blood in the government's eyes. You don't have to explain that to us. We already knew."

Carol held her breath. One too many outbursts and she was expecting Michonne to be escorted out of the room. She was expecting to hear that she wouldn't be going with them. Instead, she'd be waiting it out in Region Thirty Three to find out if they were successful—and if they were successful quickly enough—or if she'd simply be executed.

Samirah didn't scold Michonne, though. She didn't even gesture for an officer to take her under control. She folded her hands, letting them fall in front of her body, and she nodded her head.

"Fine," she said. "Our hope is that you will all procreate. If possible. Your success in the project, however, doesn't rely upon it. Not if you're behaving as you should within the community. But...I knew that this was going to be an issue for those of you who _already_ had children. I checked your files. They aren't very well kept. At least they weren't. There was limited information about your children. They were given tag numbers, just as you were. That meant, of course, that I had to cross reference things and find those tag numbers. I had to contact people. _A lot_ of people. I had to track them down as best I could."

"And?" Someone asked, though their voice was representative of what every woman in the space was thinking.

"And I found out some information. I made some phone calls. I didn't find out just about your children, but about almost all of the wild children that were captured. They were sent to specialized facilities. They were given the best care that they could have been given. Some of them were relocated to non-wild families. Those children's files were removed from the databases and moved somewhere else—that information isn't available to me. If your children were moved, you can rest assured that they're being cared for and are in very loving homes. A large number of the children, however, simply didn't survive. There was an outbreak of—fever. Of a flu. It was particularly hard on children and the elderly. It swept through the children's centers. The reason that most of the files were hard to find? The reason that they weren't well-kept and weren't organized? Was because most of the children were lost."

Carol couldn't have explained with words the feeling that tore through her. Her stomach knotted and rolled. Her chest tightened. Everything inside of her suddenly felt like it was being shredded. It felt like there was something trying to eat its way out of her. It was the violent death of whatever shred of hope she'd been clinging too.

And she'd been prepared for it. She'd been preparing herself for it for years. She couldn't imagine the ripping through that the women who clung to their hope like a security blanket might have felt.

"At any rate," Samirah continued, dragging through her speech like she hadn't just lost half her audience, "the children that were captured wouldn't and couldn't be returned to you. They've gone on to different lives. Taking them out of their homes now, especially those that were infants at the time of capture, would be uprooting everything for them. They remember nothing of their lives before and probably haven't been told about them. They were infants at capture, but they aren't infants any longer."

At Carol's side, Andrea was silenced. At least, she was almost silenced. There was some quiet noise escaping her—the breath sucking sound of anguish—but she wasn't speaking.

"So you're saying that we won't see them again," Michonne said, her voice less challenging than before.

Samirah frowned and shook her head.

"I'm afraid not," Samirah said.

"There's no way that we could..." Michonne asked, though her question never got finished.

Samirah shook her head. She stepped closer to where Michonne was sitting. She shook her head again and she bent her knees, stooping somewhat in front of Andrea and Michonne.

"I didn't get a lot of detailed information," she said. "I just didn't. There wasn't a lot to give. But—I do know that your son was at one of the facilities that got shut down. The flu swept through there. The whole place was shut down because it—because there weren't any children left to keep it open for. I'm sorry..."

At least, Carol thought, nobody flagged them for wrapping around each other. At least nobody told them that they couldn't touch each other. Nobody told anyone in the room, at that moment, who needed to seek comfort and solace in the arms of someone else who was realizing that they were no longer mothers to their long-unseen children, that they couldn't enjoy the slightest bit of comfort that human contact could provide.

 _I'm sorry._

They were the emptiest words in human language. They were the emptiest words to wilds—semi-humans—whatever they were, as well.

 _I'm sorry._

 _I'm sorry that we hunted you down like dogs. I'm sorry that we were more dangerous to you than things that could have only come out of your nightmares. I'm sorry that we injured you, drugged you, beat you. I'm sorry that we locked you away and said it was for your own good. I'm sorry that we killed your children—children you would've given your life for and almost did so many times._

 _I'm sorry._

Carol hadn't seen her daughter's face in so long now. It was still there, though, in her mind. Not as clear, perhaps, as it once had been, but it was there. Carol brought it to mind, more than she should, when she was going through something that was particularly trying to her. Her daughter's face, just behind her eyes, made taming tolerable—even if her daughter was something they used against her in the dark torture rooms.

When they said the horrible things that they said, though, Carol was somewhat able to push it out of her mind. She was somewhat able to take their words as just what they were—torturous words spoken to hurt her, to break her—because there was that small shred of hope somewhere inside her.

 _She was OK. It was a lie. It was all a lie. It was a nightmare. And it was a lie. And she was OK. Because Carol could see her there. Just behind her eyes._

Except, now, Carol knew that it was true. Everything they said was true.

She stood up and asked Samirah, who was once again standing and had returned to linger awkwardly in the center of the room, if they could be dismissed. Samirah hesitated a moment and, as softly as she could, Carol told her it was really better for her to dismiss them and let them all move on to prepare for the move to their new location. She'd said all she had to say, really, and nobody was listening anymore.

They would go. With heavy hearts, perhaps, but they would go.

But first—animals or people or whatever they were that was caught in between—they needed a chance to go and to mourn. Because even the wildest of animals mourned the loss of their young.


	26. Chapter 26

**AN: Here we are, another chapter here.**

 **I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Carol carried her own sack off the bus. Like everyone else, she was dressed in her newly issued uniform. In her sack she had packed exactly what they'd told her to pack, which was essentially everything she _owned_ and a few items that were dropped off by an officer for each inmate that was being relocated.

For a brief moment, as she stepped down off the bus's bottom step and stood in a rough line with the others who were waiting to be escorted into the high fences surrounding the community—their new home—Carol was technically _free_. At least, she guessed it was probably the closest to free that she'd ever be again, especially if the project fell through. The freedom afforded them nothing, though. Immediately there were officers who came out of the gates and greeted them. They ushered them inside and took them out of the care of those officers who had ridden with them from Region Thirty Three.

Carol didn't really know what she expected, but like most times in her life when she'd felt that way, she'd known that what she was seeing simply wasn't it. She shuffled inside with the others, almost feeling lost in the bunch, to see that their new home was somewhat akin to the gated housing communities that had existed before the turn. The homes that would be theirs, she assumed, were modest and appeared to be newly constructed. At first glance, she'd imagine each to be a two bedroom—maybe three. From where she was standing, Carol could also see that there were some larger, nicer homes within the walls as well, but she imagined they were reserved for the officers and such that would be staying with them.

It felt very different than Region Thirty Three. And Carol had spent so long as a prisoner, in the truest sense of the word, that it almost felt _wrong_.

Carol shifted her sack, heavy because she was unaccustomed to wearing it, and only then did she become aware that Daryl had come up behind her. He threaded his fingers under the strap of the bag and lifted slightly to lessen the weight just a little.

"Want me to take it?" He asked, keeping his voice low enough that it wouldn't draw the attention of anyone.

Carol shook her head at him. She wasn't going to be one of the only ones that showed up to something like this acting helpless enough that she couldn't carry her own bag. After all, she'd carried far more than that before she was captured.

People continued to spill through the gates and join Carol's group in the middle of something akin to a cul-de-sac. Outside of the fences, Carol could hear the hum and rumble of buses as they pulled up to unload their passengers and drove off. She didn't know how many, at the end of the day, would be coming to take part in the project, but there were certainly more than a few of them that had been chosen.

"Can I have your attention?" The woman they knew as Samirah called. "Excuse me? Your attention please?"

It didn't take more than a modest request to get their attention. Everyone there was trained that, when a voice of authority spoke, they'd better be quiet and they'd better listen. They were still unaware of the types of punishment that would be used here, but they could imagine that they would only be a little nicer than those employed elsewhere—and that's if they were nicer at all.

"Welcome," Samirah said. "Welcome to your new home. Welcome to the site of the _Wave Thirty Three_ project. It's a big day for all of us. For you especially. Today is the first day in the assimilation project. It's the first step toward freedom for, we hope, all wilds. And you guys? You're the first. You're the groundbreakers."

 _The future of society rests on your shoulders._

Maybe her words weren't quite so dramatic, but Carol felt that they weren't far from that. She listened lazily as Samirah gave a grand welcoming speech. There was no need to pay close attention because it covered nothing that they hadn't been told before. It covered nothing that they hadn't heard and asked questions about in the meetings that were set up with them before.

This was their home. The project would strive to prove that wilds could be successfully assimilated into society. They could become productive citizens. In steps—in _waves_ —they would be given more and more freedom. They would be given more and more responsibility to go with it. Proving that they could do what was asked of them, while also behaving like the human beings that the government doubted them to be, would keep them moving forward. And, eventually, it would earn them all _absolute_ freedom. Eventually, if they were successful, all of them would be _truly_ and _completely_ free, once again.

Carol might have landed herself the description of skeptic, but she was holding tight to the belief that she'd _believe it when she saw it_. She did believe that this was the only chance that they were getting at freedom, and she did believe that if they failed at this the government wouldn't hesitate to execute possibly thousands of innocent people, but she wasn't entirely sure she believed that they would actually be able to earn their freedom.

Maybe she simply failed to trust the government—especially now that she knew that they'd very likely taken the life of her daughter, directly or indirectly—but she was skeptical enough that she wasn't going to buy in all the way until she saw some kind of proof that what they were hearing weren't just pretty words that would be withdrawn, later, when it really mattered.

Samirah's speech droned on long enough that Carol started to grow impatient with standing on the asphalt and listening. But, like everyone else, she minded herself and remained as still as she could. This was the first day and this was their first impression. And they were reminded, lest they forget, that there was always a bus parked right outside the gates that would take them back to Region Thirty Three the minute that it seemed they were no longer a _good fit_ for the project.

Samirah's speech finally drew to a close, though, and then she was replaced by an overweight officer that reminded Carol of some actor she'd once seen on television. He was laughably overweight, especially considering the fact that most of them had once, literally, run for their lives. But comical or not, they had to give him the same respect and attention that they'd give anyone.

The "Wave" Community, as he called their new home, was considered something like an outpost of Region Thirty Three. The rules were different—and he ticked them off far too quickly before promising that each inmate would receive a written record of them—but it was still a prison. At least, it was still a prison until they'd earned the right for it to be otherwise. The smaller houses that were practically cookie cutter row houses, much like Carol had guessed, would be their homes. They would be expected to inhabit them with another inmate. They could, if they filed a request, change their housemate at any time—assuming that their request was accepted and honored. Today they would be put into houses. They would be given the opportunity to _choose_ their housemate, but if they had no one to choose then someone would be simply _elected_ for them.

Carol didn't ignore the feeling of Daryl's hand tightening around the upper part of her arm in the crowd. She imagined that was his way of requesting that they try to live together, but he didn't communicate the request verbally. She also assumed that he was under the impression that they may have to physically fight for their placements, and he wasn't losing track of her in the brawl that might ensue. Carol, on the other hand, thought that things would be much more organized. That was one thing she could give them until this point—everything was _meticulously_ organized.

Officer Waddles, as Carol had mentally dubbed the man, went on to tell them that there would be ten officers living within the community at all times. Five would be on guard and five would be off. In addition, for the earliest parts of the project, there would be several other officers that would come to the community on buses to run patrols. Every house had a phone line. All the lines would go to a central office. They were to be used to call, in case of an emergency of any kind, the officers that were on duty. They could also be used to call others within the community, but through something like an old-time operating board where they'd have to request the connection they wanted to make.

There would also be one man, apparently, that would be living in the community and had never been a prisoner. The man would serve as something of a figurehead—someone to look up to—for all of them, but he was there, as Officer Waddles explained, because he'd requested placement there. Carol couldn't imagine why he would want such a position—living among officers and potentially wild creatures—but she also didn't really care about the man's presence. They learned about him, though, as something of a warning, Carol felt. They were to respect him. They were to respect his space and his presence.

He would be one of the individuals responsible for judging just how _tame_ and _human_ they all were when nobody was looking—except there was _always_ someone looking.

 _Men to the left. Women to the right._

 _Was it sheep to the left? Goats to the right? It didn't matter. They were being sorted, and they were being cast to their fate, but they were all going the same place. Here? They were all equal._

Carol purposefully put herself next to Michonne and Andrea. Lisette had come with them, but she'd been pushed back in the crowd. Carol could see her, but she was too far away to huddle with them without causing a scene as she worked her way through the people.

"If you've got someone you want to house with," Officer Waddles was yelling, "then find them now. Step over there. You'll be escorted to a house. If you don't have a preference? Stay where you are! You'll be given a housemate for the first night. Requests for housing changes will be accepted in the morning."

Carol stood on her tiptoes and looked over the people around her to search Daryl out of the crowd of men. There was a little pushing and shoving, mostly brought on by the proximity and the fact that some people were moving while others weren't, but Carol finally broke free from the bunch and found the man she was searching for. Daryl caught her arm, not saying anything because they both understood what they were doing, and he pulled her forward and through the crowd so that they could move to the area they needed to be in for housing.

Behind her, Andrea and Michonne fought their way through the crowd. She heard a few spat curses that she assumed might have come from Andrea and someone she collided with, and then they finally burst out of the bunch and made their way, too, toward those waiting to be housed—everyone clinging desperately to their housemate of choice.

Before they could reach the place, though, another officer was coming forward and waving her hands at them. Carol braced herself to hear why she and Daryl would be separated—the show already beginning—but the officer bypassed them entirely. She stopped Andrea and Michonne. Carol felt her stomach roll, knowing what she had to say to them without even hearing it, but she never actually heard the officer's words as she ushered the women back toward the crowd because Daryl, following an officer that was responsible for finding them a house, was already pulling her in another direction.

Here, as in Region Thirty Three, there was no time for stalling.

And tonight, they were going to a place they had no choice but to call _home_.


	27. Chapter 27

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"The windows are all secured from the outside," Daryl said emerging from one of the two rooms, just off the living room and kitchen space, that their small house boasted.

"Just like the door," Carol responded trying the door knob again and pushing against the door like it might actually open this time. Daryl hummed in response and sat down on the couch with a sigh. "Some freedom," Carol commented, as much to herself as to him.

"What the hell does it matter anyway?" Daryl asked. "Were you going somewhere? There's guards out there anyway." Carol looked at him. She didn't know why it bothered her, exactly, but it did. He looked tired, but he didn't really look bothered by the whole thing. "In here? This is the most damn freedom any of us have known in a long time. I took a piss and there weren't nobody watching me."

In spite of herself, Carol laughed at him. She crossed her arms across her chest and leaned against the doorframe.

One thing that was bothering her was that, perhaps, they actually had _too much_ freedom. She didn't know what to do with herself. Their lives had been structured, since they'd been taken into captivity, down to the second. Even their so-called "free time" was had under supervision and nothing was sacred. What Daryl said was true. Going to the bathroom alone and closing a door? That was something entirely unfamiliar. At Region Thirty Three the showers and toilets had been without doors. For as shy as she remembered once having been, Carol had practically become an exhibitionist. She didn't know how to _exist_ without being watched.

And she was far too paranoid to believe that they weren't being watched now.

They told them that their homes were private. Carol had done a quick sweep of the space, sparsely furnished as it was, and she'd found nothing she could directly identify as a camera or a bugging system. However, that did relatively little to relieve the feeling of being watched that she had in her gut. They all lived their lives, now, with the permanent sensation that someone was just behind them, looking over their shoulders, and that punishment for _something_ was imminent.

"Besides," Daryl said, clearly not as uncomfortable as Carol was in the moment, "they said that these were all privileges we _earned_. Roamin' around at night's sure as hell gotta be a privilege. We just got here. Ain't earned jack shit yet."

He got up from the couch and walked over to the small table that their new home boasted. It was barely big enough for the both of them to eat at for the same meal and there were only two chairs for it. Clearly they weren't expected to have company. On the table there was a large gift basket that very nearly took over the entire top of the table. There was another, though Carol was sure the contents were different, in the kitchen. Daryl touched the ribbon to the bow that was on the basket and laughed quietly to himself.

"Two of these in the bedroom," he said. "One in the bathroom. Ain't opened 'em."

"One in the kitchen," Carol said, gesturing with her hand toward the kitchen space. Glancing in that direction, Daryl would see the basket from where he stood. He hummed. He'd no doubt noticed it already.

"And we got the whole order thing," he said, pointing out the notepad that they'd been given that, at the moment, rested on the table next to the basket. "Anything your heart desires, right? Just write that shit down and they'll deliver it to the door."

Carol doubted that too. She was suspicious of everything that they'd been given and everything that they'd been promised.

So far they'd been shown to their house—their _home_ —and they were told that everything in the home belonged to them. These were their possessions, beyond what they'd brought with them, to do with as they pleased. The kitchen was "stocked" to provide for any meals that weren't "community" meals, as the officer had called them, and they were given some "treats" which Carol assumed could be found in the basket. Any other needs that they might have would be met if they simply listed them on the form provided for them. Their requests would be reviewed and, as long as everything was _within reason_ , they could expect someone to deliver their goods the following day.

They were also given a list of the rules to read at their leisure. The project would start slowly. They'd be given three days to simply _be_. This was time for them to adjust to their new home, file rehousing requests, and think about the things that they wanted to make their lives more _livable_ and _pleasant_.

They were given time to think about their new lives and their hopes for their lives to come.

And then they would all meet with the officers that Carol could only think of as something like parole officers. Each of them would be assigned to someone and they would meet with them to discuss things like their jobs within the community. According to the officer that had debriefed them before locking them in for the night, they would also be meeting with someone else who would simply like to "get to know them" and would be something of a confidant that they could feel free to discuss everything with. Carol was pretty sure this individual—or individuals, whatever the case may be—was nothing less than a psychiatrist that would be trying to figure out if they were actually the wonderful citizens that the people running the project were searching for.

But Daryl didn't seem to be concerned.

He was nosing through the basket on the table already. The ribbon was discarded to the side and he was sorting items out onto the table. More than concerned, he looked like a kid at Christmas.

"Are you finding things to your liking?" Carol asked, somewhat amused by his interest in the basket.

"Got cards," he said. "A puzzle. Some—game things? Ain't tried the television to see if it works." He looked at her then and glanced toward the small television that he was referring to before turning his interest back to the basket. "Might as well settle down. Maybe it ain't Buckingham Palace, but it's a helluva lot better'n getting strikes just for breathing heavy."

Carol relaxed a little. She wasn't sure if it had to do with his words or just his overall demeanor. It wasn't easy to maintain her current level of anxiety in the same room as someone who seemed, for just a moment, entirely void of any concern beyond exploring the new space.

"You don't think there's some trick to this?" Carol asked, releasing with her breath even more of the tension that she was causing in herself.

"Oh—I _know_ there is," Daryl said, abandoning the basket on the table on going into the kitchen area to check the refrigerator and then to rummage through that basket. "Or...can't say it's a trick, but there's a catch. And we know it. Play nice with everyone? You get the baskets of shit you haven't seen since the world went to hell and we all went to war against the dead. Play nice with each other? You might get to breathe fresh air on your own damn terms."

"Don't?" Carol prompted when he fell silent, feeling like he was waiting for her to say something.

He shrugged at her offered word.

"Get a bullet in the brain, from what I can tell," Daryl responded. "You want somethin' to eat?"

Carol followed him into the kitchen. Each basket, apparently, was themed. The one in the living room had offered them some entertainment, light as it may be, and the one in the kitchen seemed to have assorted snacks. She assumed the "stocked" kitchen meant they probably had some bare essentials in the refrigerator and cabinet.

"There's a bottle of wine," Carol pointed out.

"You drink that without eating anything all day," Daryl said, "and we might get some kinda strike from you ralphing all over our house the first night."

Carol laughed to herself. There was still a gnawing in her gut, but it was hard to hold onto. Daryl's mood was the lightest she'd seen from anyone in some time and it was contagious.

"What is there even to eat?" She asked.

Daryl shrugged.

"Eggs?" He offered. "Anything you eat's gonna be better'n what you're used to eating."

"I can fix something," Carol said, starting around the small island in their kitchen. Daryl blocked her progress physically. She stopped and couldn't help but smile at him. A move that might have seemed threatening by most people was clearly just something of a lighthearted attempt to mess with her.

 _Her first night of this so-called freedom and Daryl wanted to "play" with her._

But Carol accepted the move for exactly what it was and tried to step around him, just to the side. He followed her and swayed right into her path once more. The space was too tight and too small to allow for much movement, so it wouldn't be hard for him to block her any way she went. She crossed her arms across her chest and did her best to look annoyed with him. She didn't feel, though, annoyed in the slightest and she was sure that it showed on her face.

"Do you want something to eat or not?" Carol asked, cocking an eyebrow at him.

"Turns out," Daryl said, "that if I ain't forgot it? I make a real mean fried-egg sandwich."

Carol curled her lip.

"With wine?" She asked.

"You sure got your heart set on gettin' me drunk," Daryl teased. "Egg sandwich first. Then—hell—your wine later. But I'm puttin' beer on that list."

Carol laughed at him.

"You're going to make me a sandwich?" She asked. Daryl shrugged in response.

"There something wrong with that?" He asked.

There wasn't anything wrong with it. Not at all. But it still struck Carol.

"I don't think...I can't even remember the last time someone made a sandwich for me because they _wanted_ to," Carol said. "I mean—the cafeteria people, but..."

"Sit down," Daryl said, wagging his hand in the direction of their living room like he was shooing her away in the same manner as he might shoo a fly. "I'll bring the sandwich."

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

One glass of wine and Carol's head was swimming like she'd had three or four. She'd underestimated the hit that her tolerance would take from having abstained so long from even tasting anything fermented. She'd never really been much of a drinker in her life, and every time she'd drank she'd had a pretty low tolerance, but she felt almost embarrassed at how much of an effect the liquid was having on her at the moment.

Daryl, too, seemed to be feeling it. He'd gone quiet and seemed to shake his head a little more often than she ever recalled. He rubbed his eyes and stared at the playing cards, which he was simply shuffling through every now and again, to refocus them.

They'd been through the whole house by now. They'd discovered that of their two rooms, one was a furnished bedroom. The other? Well—it was nothing more than an empty room. Apparently if you didn't want to share the bed with your housemate, you'd have to put in an order for them to have a bed. Carol was positive that each of the little houses had a "spare" room to remind the occupants that they would, if everything went according to plan, turn that room into something of a nursery. They weren't being, as far as Carol could tell, at all subtle about things.

Carol and Daryl had gone through their new possessions as well. They'd gone through every article of clothing they'd been given and all the baskets. Daryl had dragged his basket, like Linus with his blanket, from the bedroom into the living room so that he could keep rooting through it and marveling over the fact that, after so long with relatively nothing to call their own, they were now swimming in what were practically luxury items.

"You want more?" Daryl asked, noticing that Carol drained the last bit of wine out of her glass. Carol looked at her glass and shook her head. "Plenty," Daryl pointed out. Carol shook her head again and the action made her feel a little like her brain was swimming.

"I've had enough," she admitted. "Maybe even too much."

"Me too," Daryl said. "Too sweet anyway. Don't know what time they'll wake us up. Said something about community breakfast."

Carol had heard that too. Community meals or something of the like. She had no doubt that one of the larger buildings, set away from the houses, would be something like a cafeteria. It would be a way to socialize them—and a way to monitor them—while limiting how much the project spent on food. No matter what their lavish welcome gifts may look like, after all, there was surely a budget—and nothing they were given wasn't likely to have been donated by someone for the cause.

"We should sleep," Carol agreed. "Tomorrow? We'll find out a little bit more about this—place."

"You take the bed," Daryl said. "I'll take the couch."

"The bed is big enough for two," Carol pointed out.

"Then you'll be real damn comfortable," Daryl confirmed. He stared at Carol and she simply stared back at him. He dropped his eyes, then, to the playing cards and shuffled them once more. "I know what they're doin' here," he said. "So do you. It ain't real hard to figure out they give us a couple bottles of wine, a bed we gotta share, and some fancy ass pajamas—but they ain't put no condoms in them baskets."

Carol laughed to herself. Nothing he said was actually funny, but it still struck a chord with her because she'd noticed everything that he'd noticed.

"Like a honeymoon suite," she said. Daryl hummed his agreement.

Carol sighed and started to drink from her glass again, habit brought on by having had too much already, before she lowered it to rest against her leg once more.

"It's not the closet, but..." She offered. Daryl looked at her and shook his head at her before he dropped his attention back to the playing cards.

"You slept with me then because that's what the hell you wanted," Daryl said. "What we both wanted. I don't want—not because it's what they want. Not just—because it's like a job."

Carol swallowed.

She didn't know if they'd have sex together or not. She could have been easily convinced and she was aware of it. However, she could see that it was something that Daryl was struggling with at the moment. It seemed to be, thus far, the only thing that he was struggling with in regard to this new situation. And she knew, at this point, that no matter what she said to him, he wasn't going to believe her. Not tonight. Tonight he would only believe that anything that happened between them was simply a matter of obligation or expectation.

And he didn't want that. Neither did Carol.

She moved her hand and, for the first time since they'd played in the kitchen, touched Daryl. She rested her hand on his arm and stilled his toying with the cards.

"I won't go to bed with you out of obligation," Carol said. He glanced at her and she shook her head gently. "Never. They can make me do a lot of things. But they won't make me do that. But—tonight? I'm just asking you to share the bed with me. That's all. Just _sleep_ with me. Will you do that?"

He looked, for a second, like he might refuse and Carol smiled softly at him. She raised her eyebrows at him.

"You know you're wondering what a bed will feel like after all that time on a prison cot," Carol said. "It'd be worth even sleeping with me."

Daryl looked somewhat amused then and, as something of a show, he put the cards down on the couch beside him and stood up. He reached and, at first, Carol thought he was going to take her hand. Instead, he took her wine glass first and gathered it into a strange bouquet with his. Then, shifting both to one hand, he reached again for her hand and pulled her up.

"Go," he said. "Brush your teeth. I'ma just—be there in a minute."

Carol swallowed, her stomach churning a little. She wasn't sure, either, that the sensation had anything to do with the wine as much as it had to do with the words that she was working over in her mind.

"You're coming to bed?" She asked. The words sounded as strange to her ears as she'd thought they might.

Daryl nodded his head, already leaving her to start toward the kitchen area.

"Yeah," he called back. "I'm coming to bed."

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

 **AN: Just a reminder that this story, much like most of my others, has and will have other character involvement. This reminder is pertinent for the upcoming chapters.**


	28. Chapter 28

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

T-Dog was almost certain this wasn't what their benevolent project leaders had in mind when they'd locked them in the house together, but it was as close as he and Michonne were ever going to come to the act that they had in mind.

He'd been sitting on top of her, her arms pinned behind her back, for at least five minutes. It had taken him a great deal longer than that to get her pinned, but now he was just waiting for her to calm enough that she accepted the fact that, without the use of her arms, she simply couldn't shift his full weight. In fact, she had a much better chance of simply being crushed to death. At the moment, though, he didn't care if that happened as long as she calmed down.

"You break out of here and your dumb ass is getting us both on a bus and getting us killed," T-Dog reiterated once he was sure that she was going to hear him. She was panting, but he wasn't sure if it was from exertion or the fact that he was at least lessening the amount of oxygen she could take in. "And that won't do any good to anyone for you and me both to be dead. Not Andrea. Not you. And certainly not me. I'm not dying just because you're crazy."

"You don't understand!" Michonne coughed out.

"Maybe not," T-Dog accepted. "Hell—I'll let you tell me about it. Every dirty detail. But not until you agree to stop trying to get us killed."

T-Dog knew the exact moment that Michonne gave up the fight. He felt, under him, her entire body relax. She went limp against the floor and he was aware of the shift of his body. He moved enough to lift himself off her some, knowing that he'd press down harder on her when she was relaxed, but not enough to let her gain control of herself entirely. She made something of a gasping sound and tried to get in enough air to make up for all that she'd been lacking.

Outside they'd split Michonne and Andrea. As people who had "nobody to go with," they'd been put in something that was almost as disgusting as an auction line. The man that was their mayor—or whatever they were calling the dude that had _chosen_ to live among barely-humans—was allowed his pick of the women in the rudimentarily gathered together bunch. As luck would have it, he'd chosen Andrea—possibly not the wisest move—and she'd been police escorted out of the area to be taken to the man's house.

T-Dog had jumped then and declared that he wanted to be put with Michonne, calling her by name, and he'd been granted his request since he'd made it before anyone else had even realized that, perhaps, bidding was now open to the loudest and fastest bidder.

He hadn't done it because he had any real affection for Michonne. Honestly, he couldn't even pretend that he knew her that well. She and Andrea were pretty well known at Region Thirty Three—late captures always were—but they weren't exactly his best friends in the world. He'd done it because he'd known, simply, what it was going to be like for the women and he hoped to at least buy Michonne a little time and whatever peace of mind he could offer her until they knew a little bit more about what was happening.

And, maybe, because he thought he had a few ideas to share with her.

What it had gotten him, though, was something he could expect from a late capture. As soon as she'd been locked in the house, with no hope of escaping easily out the door or window, Michonne had found something she could use and had begun to try to jimmy the window in the small bedroom to plan her escape—not that T-Dog was sure she knew what she intended to do once she was free of the house. She was acting on adrenaline. It was that adrenaline that had gotten him a busted lip and had caused him to have no choice but to fight her to the ground.

"Getting your ass killed ain't gonna save Andrea," T-Dog said. "You gotta use your head for that."

"They won't kill us," Michonne said, flopping around a little to protest her position. T-Dog didn't let up enough to let her have her hands back. He knew better than that. She was calmer, but she wasn't calm. "They'll send us back to Region Thirty Three. Both of us. At least there—we'll be together."

"They'll kill you," T-Dog said. "Michonne, you're an intelligent woman. When you're not so blind with whatever you've got going on. Let me just talk this through with you. What's the purpose of this whole thing? The whole project that's got us here in this fine house you're trying to break out of?"

"To make babies and repopulate the world," Michonne growled at him. T-Dog laughed to himself.

"Point for you," he said. "But not just any babies. Non-wild babies. Babies raised up by government respecting parents that raise babies to be government respecting citizens. That's one purpose. But what's some of the other purposes? _Think deeper_."

"What are you? Rafiki?" Michonne snarled. T-Dog laughed.

"The Lion King," he said. "Good one. I didn't take you for a Disney person."

"I wasn't," Michonne said. "My kids were."

"You had kids?" T-Dog asked. Michonne hummed. "I didn't know that."

"There's a lot you don't know," Michonne responded.

"There's a lot you don't think about," T-Dog said. "The main purpose of this project is to show that common tamed wilds, like ourselves, can be rehabilitated enough to produce these government respecting babies. To do this, they need—well—babies. But—we also know the government's doing this shit because they got too many wilds and not nearly enough government respecting people."

"Aren't you just a brochure full of information," Michonne said. "Are you going to let me up?"

"Are you going to listen to me and stop trying to get a bullet put in my brain for fraternizing with the enemy?" T-Dog shot back.

Michonne nodded and he decided to trust her. If she tried anything, he'd already decided that his next move was going to be to knock her unconscious. She didn't fight him, though, once he let go of her. Instead she simply shifted around and crawled toward the wall. She sat and put her back against the wall, working her wrists in her hands, one at a time, while she glared at him.

She could be intimidating, but she didn't really frighten him. She was a force, alright, but he didn't doubt his own strength either.

"They won't kill you," Michonne said. "They don't want to kill us."

"You can't be that dumb," T-Dog said. "Come out of your daydream a minute and think about it. If they're killing wilds in other prisons to lower the populations, then they'll kill us. This place is to show that our happy asses can be turned into card-carrying members of their little civilized world. This place? It's like the pearly gates. You either stay and you're in heaven, or you go and...well you know what your other option is." He held his hand up to her the moment that he saw her lips even twitch to interrupt him. She glared again, but she closed her lips tightly. "If you can't make it here, then you can't be rehabilitated. If you've proved you can't be rehabilitated, then why they gonna keep you locked up in Region Thirty Three? There's no hope for you." He hummed and shook his head. He saw her eyes widen and she glanced around at nothing. That was the precise second that Michonne realized, and accepted, what T-Dog had realized at least four days ago. He nodded at her as if her expression was an actual verbalization of things. "You got it," he declared. "Buses leaving outta here? They don't go back to the prison. We'll never see the prison again. Buses leaving outta here? Go to a ditch somewhere where they shovel dirt over a whole pile of us nameless animals."

Michonne's mouth fell open slightly and then she closed it quickly enough that T-Dog heard her teeth clack quietly together. She didn't say anything, though. Maybe it was because there really wasn't anything to say.

"I know," T-Dog said, moving himself until he could sit with his back against the couch, facing her, to be more comfortable. "I felt a little sick when I figured it out too. Got my first clue when they showed us those videos. We're saving everyone else from that fate _if_ we can prove that we can be rehabilitated. We're _guaranteeing_ ourselves that fate if we fail."

Michonne was quiet and T-Dog followed suit. For a moment they just sat there, facing each other, each of them thinking what they would. T-Dog wasn't going to push her to react. He knew that he'd been stewing over this, she deserved at least a moment to take it in.

"But... _Andrea_..." Michonne said finally.

T-Dog swallowed. He had known from the time he met them that there was something there that was stronger than people maybe gave it credit for being. He didn't know their story, exactly, though he'd heard gossip-mill versions of it. Maybe, one day, he'd know the whole thing. What he did know, though, was enough to tell him that the love between the women was stronger than he'd seen between most people in his life. They didn't mind going through taming time and time again for strikes they got, as long as those strikes meant a stolen moment of some kind of affection. And Michonne had meant what she'd said earlier. They'd rather live in prison for the rest of their lives, hard as that life was, to be together if the alternative was living in a practical paradise but being kept apart.

And seeing the look on her face right now—the broken look on the face of a woman who had very nearly bested him in hand to hand combat—he wanted them together as much as they wanted to be together. He sighed and dared to crawl toward Michonne until he was sitting beside her. He extended an arm, thought better about it, and then went against his better judgment to offer it again. He slipped it around her neck and she accepted the embrace by leaning into him. For just a moment, she was going to take the comfort that was being offered to her.

"They want babies," T-Dog said. "And they're not thinking about how they could get that with the two of you together. They're just looking at you and seeing that—if you were together? That's two uteruses not putting out." Michonne didn't respond, so he continued. "But—there was shit that you could do before this to get pregnant, right? Two women? That means there's shit you can do now. Whether you agree to do it the old fashioned way or not. You gotta earn some trust. Show you're dedicated to this. Then present your case. Tell them you want to do it, but you want to do it together. Both of you, but together. They don't lose out on production—you just don't need quite so many men around."

Michonne leaned up a little to look at him. He thought, though he might have imagined it because it's what he wanted to see, that she looked a little lighter.

"The mayor?" Michonne offered.

T-Dog couldn't help but laugh in response.

"I've seen Andrea when she doesn't like something," T-Dog said. "And that man didn't look like much. Besides—he's soft. Never even been on the inside. He won't get anywhere fast. And by then? You'll have talked to them and you'll be ordering curtains for your house."

Michonne considered it a moment.

"If we both agreed," Michonne said, "to contribute to their project? It just might work."

T-Dog nodded.

"If they need a donor that won't get his feelings hurt because he's not in the household? Just—give them my house number," T-Dog said. Michonne made a face at him and he laughed. "Kidding," he responded. "But not really. Not if that's what it takes."

"What about you?" Michonne asked. "If I go, then you'll..."

"Get someone else," T-Dog said with a shrug. "They'll find someone else. Don't doubt that. I'm a government respecting citizen. I put your ass under citizen's arrest."

Michonne laughed at him.

"Why do you want to help me?" Michonne asked. "There's nothing in helping me—or Andrea—for you. Why do it?"

T-Dog swallowed and thought about his answer before he offered it to her.

"Maybe because—in a world like this? If there's real love? The kind that makes you take on all the police that are out there for a chance at breaking her outta that big ass house? I just think it oughta have a chance..."


	29. Chapter 29

**AN: Here we go, another chapter.**

 **I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Andrea curled herself into a tight ball in the dry shower with a towel and the bottle of wine she'd opened and taken from the kitchen as soon as they'd locked her in the house to wait for the man to get there. The man who had chosen her out of a line up like he might've been picking fruit. The bathroom door had a lock on it. A quick sweep of the house had left her unable to find any other lock, so the bathroom was her temporary safe haven.

What was she supposed to do when he got there? She was locked in the somewhat mansion of this new community and she was supposed to be "freshening up" and waiting on him. She didn't even remember his name. And what was she supposed to do when he came? Lie down and accept whatever he wanted to do to her? Accept that, because he'd picked her out as the "one" who most suited his tastes, she was now responsible for producing children for him?

The thought of it made her sick—but she hadn't figure out, yet, exactly how she was going to get out of it.

If she killed him, they'd kill her. Plain and simple. She knew that nobody here—nobody in charge—had any great affection for her. They never had. Not since they'd dragged her, bleeding, across the ground like the animal they told her she was.

And now, like an animal, she was just supposed to accept that some man had decided he would mount her and let her gestate his young.

They accepted, _out there_ , that it could happen. It was the law of the _wild_.

But in here? They were supposed to be proving they weren't animals—yet Andrea couldn't help but feel she was being _forced_ into the position of _being_ one.

She wasn't going to accept it.

But still her pulse picked up when she heard the sound of someone else in the house. Her heart thundered in her chest. He'd have to get through a locked bathroom door before he could even think of touching her. She had sized him up. She could overpower him before he could overpower her. But still her body responded with fear at the very possibility of it all.

She heard him calling her by name. She couldn't even remember his name, but he knew hers. She stayed quiet and tucked in the corner of the shower while he continued to look, but she knew that he'd eventually find her. The house was much larger than the other ones within the community, but it wasn't _that_ big.

And, eventually, he was knocking at the bathroom door.

"Andrea?" He called. It sounded so familiar. It sounded like he knew her when he'd probably only gotten her name from the officer that locked her in here—the officer who'd had to ask her for her name because she was accustomed to only giving her tag number. Apparently this man didn't want to call her by her tag number now that he'd picked her out to gestate his offspring—though Andrea thought it would be fitting if he did. He tapped at the door. "Uh—Andrea? Are you in there?" He tried the knob. Andrea watched it, but it wasn't moving. "You have to come out of there," he insisted.

Andrea finally got out of the shower and walked to stand in front of the door. She didn't open it, though. She took a drink from the bottle of wine. It tasted more like syrup than she recalled wine having tasted in the past.

"You'll have to break down the door if you want me out of here," Andrea said.

"I'd rather not do that," the voice came from outside. "It's really—a waste of a door. If you won't come out, I'll just get Mr. Reynolds to take the door down."

Andrea stood there. She wasn't sure how to respond. The conversation was a bit too rational for the way that her body felt—entirely keyed up—and the man outside didn't sound like he was threatening her at all.

"Whatever you think you're going to do to me," Andrea called back at him. "I won't allow it."

Silence for a beat or two.

"I assure you," the man responded. "I'm not planning to do anything to you. But you have to come out of the bathroom."

"Why do you want me out so bad?" Andrea barked back, her heart was beating slower now. She was calming, whether she really meant to or not.

"You're in my bathroom," the man said, his voice never having changed from the simple and straightforward tone that he'd used in the beginning. "Your bathroom is downstairs."

"My bathroom?" Andrea responded.

"I had Mrs. Reynolds design it for you. Towels, soaps—she said that you would like it," the man responded. "If you don't like it, I could arrange for things that you like. But—this is not your bathroom. This is my bathroom and it's designed just the way that I like it. I could arrange, if you're fond of it, to have your bathroom decorated like it—if you like."

Andrea swallowed and touched the doorknob. He wasn't trying it any longer. He wasn't knocking. Now that he'd established her location, he simply seemed to be standing outside of the door. He was just going to wait her out until she abandoned his bathroom. She turned the lock and opened the door a crack. She peeked out and he was just standing there. He offered her a somewhat awkward smile and then gave her a very odd wave that was mostly comprised of him wiggling his fingers.

"Oh good," he said, evident relief in his voice. "You're coming out now. I could've called Mr. Reynolds, but everyone is terribly busy tonight and I didn't really want to bother him."

Andrea opened the door a little more and saw that he didn't move at all from his position. She leaned her face against the doorframe.

"What do you want from me?" She asked.

He looked at her, visibly swallowed, and stammered out some sounds before arriving at actual words.

"I want you to come out of the bathroom," he said, finally.

Andrea opened the door the rest of the way and he looked relieved. It seemed, for a moment at least, that his genuine interest was simply in getting her out of the bathroom.

"You picked me out," Andrea said. "Why?"

He stammered and searched for words. He picked out the ones he liked best.

"I like you?" He responded.

"Is that a question or an answer?" Andrea asked.

"Yes," he said. "I mean—it's an answer. If it's the right one, I'm not sure."

"Why. Did. You. Pick. Me?" Andrea asked, stressing out each of the words.

"I like you?" He responded again. He shook his head and sighed. "Listen, I don't know what you want me to say. But I can see you're very angry right now. And that's—that's not good. If you'd like? Tomorrow? I can tell them that I've changed my mind. You can—go back into the pool. They'll match you with someone else."

"And they'll match you with someone else?" Andrea asked.

He laughed quietly.

"Undoubtedly," he said. "Wave Thirty Three is a controlled population expansion project with focus on careful selection of teachable and inheritable citizen attributes. I've been working with the government since the first wave and I was chosen to join the population of Wave Thirty Three for my assistance to the project, but also in the hopes that I might..."

He stopped. His expression changed. Andrea wasn't sure if it was because he feared he'd said too much or he simply didn't know how to continue. He kept swallowing and she almost wondered if she should abandon the bathroom to him simply because he might vomit soon.

"That I might...that we would..." He stopped entirely. He froze. Andrea waited because she was sure that he wasn't done, but she halfway feared that he'd never finish. He looked around and then back at her. "That my children would inherit certain qualities that they might hope to preserve in the case of my eventual demise."

Andrea furrowed her brow at him. Even with the admission of it, she didn't feel as angry as she had before. She didn't feel threatened at all. She was beginning to doubt that her friend—whatever his name might be—had never even been as close to a woman as he was right now.

"So you did intend to force me to have sex with you," Andrea said.

His eyes went wide and he started to shake his head.

"No...no...no...force was never...I never intended to...I..." he stammered.

"You were just going to wait for me to offer?" Andrea asked. "We just—share the same room and sleep in the same bed and eventually I'll get bored and offer to—incubate your impressive government-coveted genes?"

His mouth fell open slightly. He shook his head.

"You—uh—your bedroom is downstairs," he said. "With your bathroom. I had Mrs. Reynolds—but if you don't like it..."

She'd broken him, she was sure. She almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

"You had Mrs. Reynolds design me a bathroom and a bedroom," Andrea offered. He nodded. "And that was supposed to get me in your bed?"

He shook his head again.

"Your bedroom is downstairs," he repeated. "It has a bed in it. A nice one. They assure me that it's very comfortable. My room—you see. You can't go in my room. It's not for you. It's my room and this is my bathroom and..."

"And you were just going to come to my room and _service_ me?" Andrea asked.

He froze again.

"I was assured that we could work the details out together," the man said. "The whole—process—doesn't have to take place immediately. I've requested a meal to be brought to the house and tonight I thought that you might be—tired. I thought we could share the meal and then you could retire to your bedroom. I've got some work that I need to do and—I could arrange for some entertainment if you'd like."

Andrea sucked in a breath.

"You don't want to have sex with me, do you?" Andrea asked.

"Eventually—I think that..." He said, but again he fell short of finishing.

Andrea acknowledged his hesitation with a nod of her head.

"Are they making you do this too?" Andrea asked.

He glanced around and Andrea felt her stomach do an odd flip inside of her. His eyes searched around him like he was looking for something and she worried that he might be looking, instead, for _someone_. He smiled at her and let out a breath loudly.

"I very much look forward to the growth of our relationship," the man said. "Now—if you would come out of the bathroom? I require access to the facilities and I would like to wash my hands. Downstairs you'll find—everything you need. They'll bring our meal directly."

Andrea started to move, tricking him into believing that she was coming out, and he turned his body sideways to work his way into the bathroom as though he could squeeze by her and through the door without touching her. She grabbed him, at the last minute, and dragged him into the bathroom with her. It required so little effort on her part that she never even had to give up the grip she had on the neck of her wine bottle. She pushed him against the wall and ignored the fact that he looked absolutely terrified of her.

 _Of course, he was a non-wild—a very timid non-wild—and he was trapped in very close quarters with a wild. And not just any wild—a Late Capture._

Andrea leaned close to him so that he could hear her without her having to raise her voice above a breathy whisper.

"What is your name?" She asked. "I'm not going to hurt you—not if you don't make me."

He hesitated and she repeated her question.

"Milton," he said. "Milton Mamet."

Andrea sucked in a breath.

"Are we being watched right now, Milton Mamet?" Andrea asked, her voice low.

Milton swallowed loudly enough that she heard it.

"Not to my knowledge," he responded.

Andrea let go of him.

"Do you have intentions to hurt me?" She asked.

He stared at her. Then he laughed nervously, the first sign of any emotion other than some kind of slight panic, and shook his head.

"I hardly think that's possible or likely," he commented. Andrea accepted his assessment of their situation. He didn't move and she kept him backed against the wall. So, fairly enough, he turned the challenge around on her. "Do you intend to hurt me? Andrea?" He asked.

Andrea realized that, at that moment, she felt very differently than she had when she'd huddled in the corner of the shower out of fear. She shook her head at him.

"I hope not," she said. "Milton," she added. She saw his shoulders sag. She backed off of him and he let out a breath.

"Then we have something in common," Milton said.

Andrea hummed.

"And I guess that'll have to hold us over while we figure out the rest," Andrea said. "Enjoy your bathroom."

She left him there and started toward the stairs to go downstairs and find what she presumed were her "quarters" for the time being.

She hoped that Michonne ended up somewhere safe, and she hoped to know more about her companion soon, but she was starting to think that she was in the best position of them all to find out more about the new community that they called home.


	30. Chapter 30

**AN: Here we are, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Carol was sitting at the table and she was writing something in a notebook. Daryl was fresh out of the shower, having bothered to do nothing more than put pants on, and he could still feel the coolness of the air around him reminding him that he'd always done a pretty piss poor job at drying off—even if they had towels that were ten times bigger than the rags they'd used to dry themselves at Region Thirty Three.

"Where'd you get that?" Daryl asked. Carol jumped slightly and then looked over her shoulder at him. He muttered a quiet apology for startling her.

"This?" She asked, gesturing toward the notebook. Daryl nodded. "Came in the box. By the door. They brought it just after you got in the shower. Wine for me. Beer for you. I put your beer in the refrigerator."

Daryl walked to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. He picked up one of the bottles of beer and turned it around in his hand. It was warm and it was from a company that he'd never heard of before—of course he assumed that a great number of companies he had once heard of were more than likely out of business. The world was new again. Some of it may have been simply put on pause, but most of it was starting over from scratch. He counted the twelve bottles and then went to the box that was still standing open on the floor. He rifled through its contents and checked it from the list that they'd provided the day before when they'd gone to breakfast.

"Everything here," Daryl said.

"Almost," Carol responded.

He hummed. There was one item on the list that, instead of receiving a check beside it, was crossed out.

"Condoms," he said.

"I guess they don't make them anymore," Carol mused. He turned to look at her and straightened up. He laughed to himself and bit at the piece of skin on the edge of his thumb that he'd been trying to work loose all day.

"It was worth a try?" Daryl asked.

He didn't know what else he could say about it. They were hovering around some kind of point—and Daryl could feel that oscillation—even if he wasn't entirely sure what that point was.

The first night they'd simply slept together. Like brother and sister, they'd shared the same bed and shared the first really good night's sleep that either of them had had in a while. Their first full day had been spent alternating between community meals—which hardly seemed "community" based at all since they were still learning the lay of the land and hadn't found anyone they knew in the amount of time given to them to sit and eat—and simply sitting around their house. Last night they'd slept together, again, like brother and sister—each keeping to their side of the bed. Breakfast, this morning, had been a little more organized but it was clear that their "overseers" were working out kinks in their system still and it would continue to run like a madhouse until they had more time to see what their project looked like in practice. They had two days more of the boredom before they'd be allowed to discuss jobs. They were told these days were to help them "settle in" and contemplate their new lives, but it was clear that the real goal of these days was to bore everyone into looking for project-supported ways to pass the time.

Their television, after all, only had one channel and it reminded Daryl of the weather channel. It was nothing but "community news" and it rolled the same messages through on a loop. You could watch it for a while, but eventually your brain started to go numb. He was beginning to long for the prison recesses just for the chance to go outside and rid himself of some energy.

And though they'd discussed the possibility of giving in and spending their time doing more enjoyable activities—of which they'd probably become bored after a while—they'd been waiting to see if their superiors meant what they said about reproduction not being a "requirement".

The fact of the matter was, it might not be a requirement, but it was coming highly recommended.

Carol just hummed at him.

"Worth a try," she echoed, not looking up from her notebook.

Daryl walked toward her and he half expected her to cover the notebook with her hand or arm. She didn't, but he didn't try to actually read what she was writing there.

"What—uh—what'cha writing?" Daryl asked.

Carol laughed quietly to herself like he'd asked her an amusing question.

"I don't know," she admitted. "I just wanted to write something. Right now? I'm just—writing down thoughts."

"About?" Daryl asked.

Carol shook her head.

"Anything I need to get out of my head," she said. "Anything I need to—just get out for a little while. I used to write a lot. I journaled and—it helped. At least, I thought it did."

"You feeling better?" Daryl asked. He went over to the couch and sat down. He picked up the stack of playing cards that he kept shuffling through every now and again. He was trying to teach himself to do magic tricks. Of course, that whole idea might have come easier if he'd actually known where to begin to _do_ a magic trick.

"I think so," Carol said.

"Then it's worth it," Daryl commented. "Ain't like there's a whole lot else to do here. You'd think they'd let our asses out for recess or something. Feels a little like the walls are closing in. Can't even open the windows for air."

"You're claustrophobic?" Carol asked.

"If I am, didn't know I was," Daryl replied.

"I am," Carol said. "I have been for a long time. Not here. The space has got to be tighter. Smaller. No chance of getting air. Here? There's air that comes in through the cracks, don't you think?"

Daryl stomach turned. Her voice changed slightly at the end and he realized that, without meaning it at all, he might have given her something to worry about that she hadn't thought about at all—something that could end up turning bad for the both of them.

"Yeah," he said quickly. "Of course. I didn't mean there weren't no air. Just meant—wish we had the freedom to go outside. Plenty of air. The windows ain't sealed properly. House was thrown together. Gonna be _drafty_ in the cold."

He rolled his eyes to the side to watch her without actually watching her. She was nodding, even if she made no sound to go with the gesture. She was still leaning over the notebook, but she wasn't writing. She was just turning the pencil around in her fingers. It was no different, really, than Daryl flipping through the cards without aim.

They were used to boredom, and now they had more to entertain them than they did before, but maybe boredom was different when you didn't spend every waking moment just waiting for the shoe to drop and someone to whisk you off somewhere to beat the shit out of you just because they were having a bad day. It was an improvement, but it didn't mean that it didn't come with its own set of frustrations.

Daryl went back to shuffling his cards, leaving Carol to scratch things in her notebook, but he looked back at her when she spoke again and called for his attention.

"Do you _believe_ anything they're saying about this project?" Carol asked.

"What you mean?" Daryl asked. "We're here. Right where they said we'd be. Looks like—everything they've said so far they're doing. Didn't plan meals too well, but I guess they're working the kinks out."

"Do you believe there's freedom after this?" Carol asked. "That—we've just got to jump through their hoops to prove something? Prove our—humanity? Or our ability to..."

"Play by their rules, more'n anything else," Daryl mused.

"You believe it?" Carol asked again.

Daryl shrugged to himself.

"Got two choices," he said. "Believe it or don't. Either way—we're here now. Two ways out. The freedom they're promising or we die. Even if they don't give us some kinda absolute freedom? We got more than we had."

Carol hummed. She turned in her chair to somewhat recline in it sideways. She didn't drop the pencil. Instead she kept it in her fingers as something to toy with while she worked on something that she was very clearly thinking about.

"If we had absolute freedom," she said, "what happens then?" Daryl hummed in question. "With _us_?" Carol added. "If we get some kind of freedom—do we stay together? Even if they're not making us play house?"

Daryl's stomach twisted slightly. He hadn't really thought about it. He hadn't considered that there really might be a time when they were as free as they ever were. He hadn't really thought about a time where they made decisions like if they stayed or they went—and who they stayed and went _with_. He had simply taken what was in front of him, like he almost always did, as the only sure thing that there was.

He shrugged.

"Don't know about you," Daryl said. "But—there really ain't nothin' out there for me. I got nowhere to go. Nowhere to be."

 _I wasn't anywhere to begin with._

 _But he kept some things to himself._

"So we'd—stay together?" Carol asked. "That's what you're saying."

Daryl shrugged again.

"I guess that's what I'm saying," Daryl said. "But—it's as much up to you as it is to me."

Carol nodded. She turned in her chair and went back to scratching in her notebook. Daryl assumed the conversation was over for the moment and he shuffled through the deck a few more times before he got up and returned to the fridge to check the status of his beer. It was cooling, but not at an alarming rate. He was being impatient, and he knew it. Refrigerators had never cooled at the speed he was expecting this one to work.

He returned to the living room, but he didn't make it to the couch again before Carol started to speak. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed across his chest, and listened to her. Standing on his feet, the same as pacing the floor, at least gave him something to do—something to get rid of some of the energy.

"I don't even know if I can _get_ pregnant," Carol said. Daryl didn't respond. She was thinking out loud, maybe. She needed him to listen, but anything he said would be unnecessary at the moment—if he even had anything to say. "My daughter—that was so many years ago. I'm one of the oldest people here."

Daryl sucked his teeth.

"I wouldn't say that," he said. "There's a good many people here that's stretching the age thing a little bit. I looked around the cafeteria."

She made a face at him. He'd been right before. His input at the moment wasn't entirely appreciated. She just wanted him to listen. He took the hint and closed his lips.

"They're going to expect me to," Carol said. "They're at least going to expect me to be able to say I'm _trying_. And if I did? Unless you file a rehousing order then it's going to be your child too." Daryl's stomach churned at that. He was aware of these things, in some dusty corner of his mind, but it was different to hear them said out loud and in his presence. He didn't respond, though, he simply nodded his head to indicate that he was still listening. "How would you feel about that?" Carol asked. Daryl stared at her, but then he realized that, if he was being addressed with a direct question, he was expected to answer. He shook his head.

"Honestly? I haven't thought about it," he admitted. "I mean—I know that's what the hell they got us here for. But I haven't thought about it." He could see on her face that was as close to not answering the question as if he'd simply kept his mouth shut. He swallowed and tried to think through it as quickly as he could. He tried to search for something more in line of what she was expecting. "It would be—what it was. A kid. My kid and your kid—I don't got a better answer than that. Not right now."

Carol chewed her lip and nodded at him.

"And if there was one?" Carol asked. "And they tried—to take it away?"

Daryl wished she'd stop saying some of these things. Every now and again, something she said—something that was usually something he hadn't dedicated much thought to—caught him in the gut like a fist. He could do without an onslaught of those sensations.

"Wouldn't happen," he said. "At least—they'd kill both of us 'fore it did, right?"

"You know, out there? That's why they shot Andrea," Carol said. "They had—my daughter? They had her before I could stop them."

Daryl nodded.

"They shoot me, they just as well shoot me dead," Daryl offered. "They done tortured my ass enough now—I don't guess a bullet would stop me if they didn't place it right to stop me for good."

Carol looked about as sick as he felt. She stewed for a moment, in silence this time, and then she looked at him. She nodded and repeated the gesture a few times until the tension in her features gave way a little.

"If we're going to do this," Carol said. "Then—I want to do it with you. All of it. The whole thing."

Daryl laughed to himself, struck by the tone of her voice.

"Sounds like a business proposition," he said.

"Part of it is," Carol said. "I don't feel like we've been left a choice in the matter on that. But—the other part, I think, is the best kind of...of... _declaration_ I can give right now."

Daryl swallowed. He didn't press to find out what the declaration was. He knew, though, that he couldn't offer her anything better. Not right now. Not yet.

He nodded his head at her. Scratched an itch that suddenly struck him as being something he couldn't ignore.

"Then we're in it," Daryl said, "together. Whatever it turns out to be."


	31. Chapter 31

AN: Here we are, another chapter here.

I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

There had been days spent nauseous with her own pain, wondering if she'd die, swimming in darkness and the sounds of others' suffering, alone—and none of it had really prepared Andrea for the _solitude_ that she'd felt since she'd arrived. She wondered if it might even be a new tactic for trying to break her—something they hadn't tried yet. She was accompanied but utterly alone.

They had been told that there would be ample opportunity for "community" building within their new home. The only proof that Andrea had seen of that was the fact that the rolling scroll on the one television channel advertised that they could leave their suggestion for a "Community Name" outside their door with their order forms, dropped through their mail slot with everything else, and they'd be entered into the drawing for the name that would be used for the cluster of homes.

There were supposed to be community meals. They were supposed to be let out of their houses three times a day to commune with people and eat food. At the moment, the thought of it sounded like a vacation. Milton was not very social—he even ate in silence with Andrea and seemed to prefer that she refrain from speaking at all—and so he had their meals delivered to them. Milton, it seemed, was a very important man, and so what he wanted was exactly what happened. Three meals a day came to their door. Andrea only ever saw the person who delivered them. They would knock and, if Milton was home, they'd wait for him to unlock the door with his key and accept the delivery. If he wasn't home, and thus had locked the door from the outside, they would knock and then unlock it themselves to put the delivery inside.

The scrolling news page—Andrea's only connection to the fact that there was an outside world that existed beyond the walls of her new home—told her that there were some "delays" within the community. They would be coming around as soon as they were able and they would discuss, with everyone, their jobs within the community. They would assign people to appointment times to talk with "companions," and they would address other concerns. The scrolling words requested that everyone simply remain patient and know that, eventually, it would be their turn.

Andrea was learning the true meaning of patience. And she was starting to doubt that she would be assigned a job. She was wondering if, having been handed over to Milton as his "wife" or whatever they were being called, she'd simply been forgotten.

She wasn't even sure why Milton _wanted_ her.

Milton worked daily. He was a scientist. He was apparently quite intelligent. He worked for the government—apparently for someone very high up—and he had an important role in the community project. He also had, if Andrea guessed correctly, an important role in other projects that were taking place elsewhere in the great wide world beyond their community. He ate two meals a day with her—breakfast and dinner—and he preferred them to be relatively silent meals. Then he typically spent his extra time in his room, listening to music that she heard drifting out of the door, or in his "office" where she heard nothing beyond the occasional sound of him talking to himself. It was _her_ voice, apparently, that Milton didn't care for.

He liked his privacy, too. The fact that Andrea, on her first night, had hidden in his bathroom had shaken the man up. He'd required them to come and install a heavy lock on his office door. The lock was of the kind of construction that, in order to break it, Andrea would've simply had to resign herself to breaking the door down entirely. He'd had them also install two small locks on his bedroom door and bathroom door that he could lock from the outside with a key. That way, both doors could be locked, just like their front door, both from the inside and the outside. It was a clear message to Andrea that her house practically had the tape line of warring siblings that declared the space "mine" and "yours" but never "ours."

Andrea's room and bathroom had no lock, but no one was exactly trying to enter them either.

Milton wasn't a cruel man. He didn't mistreat her and he didn't make her uncomfortable. Rather, it felt like Andrea was the one that made _him_ uncomfortable. Even a friendly greeting, offered with the hope of stirring up conversation, was met with Milton barely being able to swallow without choking on his tongue. Instead of bringing about the interaction that Andrea hoped for, her attempts to speak to Milton only sent him fleeing quicker to his "space" than usual.

And when Milton was at work? Andrea simply sat, alone, and watched the news scroll by on her television while she wondered what had become of the people she'd known and what life was like for the others within the community. She didn't know if Michonne was even there still. She didn't know who she might have ended up with. She didn't know if she even remembered her or thought of her. But she had plenty of time to think about it all while suffering from the worst boredom she'd ever known in her entire life. To ease that boredom, though it hadn't helped much, she'd submitted twenty five different names for the community and she watched the scroll constantly, waiting for the name announcement, in the same way that gambling addicts probably had once waited to find out if their ship had come in and they'd won the lottery. It would be some sign that she was still alive and that, no matter how distantly removed, other people knew that too.

When there was a knock on the door, Andrea checked the clock above their fireplace—an addition to their home that had never been used. It wasn't time for lunch. Her heart skipped a beat as she dared to let herself get excited. They were coming to talk to her. They were going to give her a job. They were going to give her someone to talk to. At this point, she didn't care if it was a psychiatrist coming to judge her possible insanity—she'd take _anyone_ who wanted to engage in conversation.

Andrea got up and ran to do the door like she might open it, but she couldn't open it. It was locked from the outside. Milton had locked her in when he'd left for work.

"Come in?" Andrea called at the door, hoping the person outside realized that she, as still technically a prisoner though now a prisoner in her home, could do nothing more to grant them access.

"I'm coming in," a woman's voice responded. Andrea might have rolled her eyes at the announcement, but she was too excited about the possibility of actually having some kind of company. She stepped back from the door, as she was required to do, and waited a short distance away. The woman opened the door and stuck her head in instead of sliding in a box or offering an arm through first with bags that held their "carry out" plates. "Hello?" She asked. "Hi!" She said when she noticed Andrea. She was, perhaps, the most enthusiastic person that Andrea had seen there—and something about her was at least vaguely familiar. "You're Andrea?"

Andrea only then realized that, probably from having spent so much time in Milton's company, she'd forgotten to speak at all. She was also, still, a little unaccustomed to hearing her actual name muttered by anyone she wasn't intimately acquainted with.

"Andrea," Andrea said. "I'm Andrea. You're—here to give me a job?"

The woman frowned. She shook her head gently.

"Can I come in?" She asked. "I don't want to invade your space. It'll only be for a few minutes..."

"Please!" Andrea said, almost jumping at the opportunity to invite the woman in. The offer was on the table, even though the woman didn't actually need it at all, and she stepped inside. She was wearing what Andrea was starting to assume was the customary "uniform" of anyone who worked in the community but wasn't an officer. It identified her, really, as simply a superior. She was an authority figure, regardless of her role. "You could sit. The table. The couch. That—chair is pretty comfortable."

"I won't be here that long," the woman said. "I'm from the Med Service with the Clinic here?" Andrea nodded her understanding and tried to hide her disappointment that she wasn't going to be keeping this person for a while. "I'm just coming around to ask a few questions and drop off a few helpful items?" Andrea nodded again. "Is there something wrong, Andrea?" Andrea quickly shook her head.

"If you're not going to sit," Andrea said, gesturing toward her own table, "do you mind if I do?"

"Not at all," the woman responded. "You're with Mr. Mamet," the woman continued. She produced, from the bag she was carrying, a yellow legal pad. She began to read from it, then, and Andrea realized where she knew her from. The woman had been part of their introductory training or whatever they'd called the meetings. She was the woman who seemed to prefer to stick to her "script". "Is everything going well? With your _relationship_ with Mr. Mamet?" She looked at Andrea. It was Andrea's turn to speak.

Andrea nodded. There was no need in saying that things weren't going well. There was no telling where she went from here. If she said that they weren't going well, especially with a man like Milton who couldn't be difficult to get along with if she never even saw him, then she might be considered _defective._ Failure at this could very well be her ticket out of here—and she had no idea where the bus stopped when it left Pleasantville.

"Fine," she said. She forced some fake enthusiasm. "Great. It's—really going great."

The woman smiled and dug around in her bag for a pencil. She jotted something down on the yellow legal pad. Apparently her questions and information were all laid out there for her.

"Are you sure you won't sit?" Andrea asked. "Even—for a minute?"

The woman considered it, but then she accepted the offered seat and settled across the table from Andrea. Immediately Andrea felt like there was less tension in the room. There was something about sitting at a table together that simply felt more intimate than standing and keeping their distance from one another.

"It's really wonderful that your relationship is going so well," the woman said, looking over her pad. "It stirred up a little concern when Mr. Mamet chose your file...but...things worked out and that's what we're wanting to see."

"Chose my file?" Andrea asked. The woman looked at her with the immediate expression of someone caught with their hand in a mouse trap. Maybe she preferred going from a script because deviating from one left too much of a margin for error. "Milton chose me out of a line-up." The woman didn't respond. She was thinking, but she didn't think too quickly. "He knew _before_ I even got there that he'd choose me?"

The woman sighed. She glanced around and then her eyes settled on Andrea again.

"Look," she said, "you're an intelligent woman. I'm sure of that. You have to know that you haven't always had the best reputation. I've done medical work for you before—injuries you could've avoided. But you chose not to." Andrea's stomach turned a little. The woman was being frank with her. She was being honest with her. It was unnerving because it was something they certainly weren't used to any longer. "I can't say more—and please don't ask me to. Mr. Mamet _chose_ you because he thought you'd be the best fit for the role."

Andrea swallowed and nodded both her understanding and the agreement that she wouldn't ask for more—no matter how desperately she wanted to. She hadn't been on her best behavior before, perhaps, but she had a feeling that she was going to be required to watch herself a little more now.

"What else do you need to know?" Andrea asked when she found her voice.

The woman's eyes dropped back to her legal pad.

"It's early, and it's a long shot, but do you have any reason to believe that you might be pregnant?" The woman asked. She looked at Andrea again. "You've had a child so you know a little about how your body responds. Any symptoms? Anything at all?"

Andrea could've told her that it was even more of long shot than she imagined, but she didn't. She simply shook her head. The woman nodded in response and went through her bag on the floor before she produced a plastic bag that she passed to Andrea across the top of the table.

"In case you need any help," the woman said. "There are ovulation tests. Pregnancy tests. And—I'm not asking all the questions, but if _he_ should need some help? The blue pills will—kick things up a notch." Andrea looked into the bag. She knew she wasn't pregnant. There was no way that she possibly could be. Though she might've convinced herself, at that moment, that she was. Her stomach was twisting in knots and she feared she might get sick before the woman left her alone with her solitude. "We're just trying to move things alone and Mr. Mamet is particularly anxious to—you know—get things started."

Andrea wondered if _Mr. Mamet_ had any idea where babies came from. Simply _coexisting_ in a house wasn't going to have them crawling in offspring any time soon. She swallowed back her thoughts, though, for the time being.

"Thank you for these," Andrea said, not knowing what else to say to the woman. She got a nod in response.

"Mr. Mamet has an open line," the woman said. "The minute that you have even one positive test? I want you to call the clinic. We want to know _immediately_. Even if—you have any questions or concerns? Or you just need—more of anything? Don't hesitate to contact us. We're here to help you out in any way that we can. Mr. Mamet has requested the best attention that we've got to give to the matter."

Andrea nodded her understanding to the woman. She would save her questions—because she simply didn't know who to trust here—but Milton was going to talk to her if she had to tie him to the chair and force him to stay in one place.

"Is there anything that you need?" The woman asked. "Anything that I can do to—maybe help the process along?"

Andrea swallowed and shook her head. There was nothing the woman could do at all.

"I do have some—questions," Andrea said. "If I'm allowed..."

"Of course," the woman said, interrupting her. "I'll answer anything I can."

"If I have a baby?" Andrea asked. "Can you promise me that—it's mine? I get to—keep it? No one's coming to take it away in the middle of the night or anything?"

The woman's face fell slightly. Her brow furrowed.

"As long as parents are deemed suitable? Children aren't being _harmed_? You'll keep your children," the woman said. Andrea nodded her acceptance.

"You're _sure_ of that?" Andrea asked.

"It's one of the main principles on which Wave Thirty Three is built," the woman responded.

Andrea sucked in a breath.

"Do you know when—I can get a job?" Andrea asked.

"That's not my area," the woman said, shaking her head. "I know that they're working on it, but I really couldn't tell you more than that. Why? Is there—something you need?"

Andrea nodded.

"Yeah," she responded. "I think—it would just help if I could get out of this house a little bit. I'm— _we're_ always locked up. Closed in. It leaves a lot of time to just think. And that means overthinking and..."

"And you think that it might be affecting _things_?" The woman asked.

 _Sure, I'll take that._

Andrea knew better than to say what she was thinking.

"I don't know if it's an old wives' tale or if...but I certainly think that a little distraction would help everyone—would help _me_ —relax. And Milton—and _I_ —we just really, really want things to go as...as _smoothly_ as possible. As _quickly_ as possible. And I think just distracting myself and relaxing? It could help," Andrea said.

The woman smiled at her and reached a hand across the table. She touched Andrea's hand—brushed her thumb against it. It was the first affectionate touch that Andrea had felt in a while. She turned her hand and took the woman's hand in her fingers. She was grateful that she didn't pull away—she accepted the gesture as nothing more than friendly affection—affection shared by _humans_.

"Some of that is just old wives' tales and mumbo jumbo," the woman said. "But there's some truth to it too. Relaxing? It certainly can't hurt. See if what I gave you helps too. Don't worry about the time—it'll happen when it's supposed to happen. Let me know the moment that you—even suspect anything. And in the meantime? I'll see if I can't talk to someone. The key to this project is building families, and we want to be sure that the families we're building? We want them to be _happy_ families."


	32. Chapter 32

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **Checking in with Daryl and Carol.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Daryl hid in the bedroom and half-listened through the door to the muffled conversation between Carol and the woman. The woman knew he was there. She had to. They were locked in the house until someone came to let them out for meals. Short of breaking a window, there was no escape. But he didn't want to get dragged into things and the television had warned them that today didn't look like the day that they were going to get the awaited job assignments. And if it was? Carol could come and "wake him."

When Daryl heard the front door close, he opened the bedroom door a crack.

"Gone?" He asked.

"Gone," Carol responded.

Daryl found his underwear, pulled them on, and walked out of the bedroom.

"That weren't no delivery," Daryl said. "Took too long."

"It was a delivery, but a different kind of delivery. We didn't order this," Carol responded.

"Another welcome basket?" Daryl asked. Carol was sitting at the table looking through a bag that he assumed the woman had brought by. He knew she'd tell him if there was anything in there that would interest him, so he went into the kitchen and checked the contents of their fridge. Boredom, perhaps, had led them to order a great deal of random things with the little delivery service that the community offered. So far they'd gotten almost everything they asked for. Their list was always returned, items checked off, and there was always a short "explanation" beside something if they couldn't have it. Sorry, it was out of stock. Something of the like.

Except condoms. No matter how many times they put that on the list it just kept getting returned to them with the item scratched out. Of course, now they were really doing it for the hell of it. Boredom had also led them to christen nearly every surface in their little house that they thought would hold them.

It beat the hell out of a quickie in a storage closet, that was sure.

Daryl selected a beer from the refrigerator and stopped by the drawer to pry the top off with a bottle opener. He flicked the top into the trash can—trash was picked up once daily as well, usually in the morning at breakfast call—and he drank a long swallow out of the beer before he came back into the living room to see what it was that Carol had in the bag.

"What is it?" Daryl asked, leaning over her.

"Well it's a _type_ of welcome basket," Carol said. She sighed. "Ovulation tests? Pregnancy tests? Short order babies, anyone?" Daryl hummed. It didn't mean anything to him. The kid, of course, would mean something him if there was supposed to be one, but all the tests didn't really mean anything to him.

"They must be for you," Daryl said. "I never was any good at taking tests."

He laughed and stepped back quickly when Carol playfully lunged at him for the joke. She stood up and sighed again as she moved the bag farther away from her on the table like such a short distance was really going change anything.

"There's some pills in there for you, too," Carol said. "Just in case you're having a little _trouble_."

Daryl sucked his teeth. The beer that they were brewing now had an almost floral taste to it. It wasn't exactly horrible, but it wasn't exactly as good as he remembered beer being either. All in all, like everything else in their lives, it was an acquired taste.

"What kinda pills?" Daryl asked.

Carol took his beer away and he let her have it. She didn't really like it, but she seemed fond of drinking the last few swallows out of every bottle he'd opened thus far.

"You know," Carol said. "What'd they call them? Prozac...no...that was depression. The pills. The erection pills? For when you can't get it up?"

"Viagra?" Daryl asked, raising his eyebrows at her. She smirked and nodded as she polished off what was left of the beer. She put the bottle on the table beside the bag. It would stay there until one of them made the journey back to the kitchen.

"That's it," she said. "They brought _you_ Viagra. In case you need it."

She started toward the bathroom and Daryl followed after her.

"You tell her we didn't need it?" He asked.

"No," Carol said. "I just accepted all of it."

"You think I need it?" Daryl asked.

Carol laughed, but she tried to muffle it. She reached the bathroom and turned around to look at him.

"You're going to watch me pee?" She asked him.

"Ain't you used to it by now?" Daryl asked. He really had no intention of watching her use the bathroom, though. He backed up as soon as he'd said it and, as a show, reached to pull the door closed as he did. He did stand outside the door, though. It wasn't like they really had a great need for privacy, and it wasn't like either of them were really sitting on any grand secrets right now. They'd seen just about everything the other had to show.

If they were doing this? They might as well make the best of it. There could be worse things that they were made to do than stay in a house with someone they actually _liked_ and have sex to pass the time between meals that were prepared for them.

And, maybe, there was something else behind it too.

Things in this world could go to shit in a minute. They'd both learned that. No matter what was going on, there was always a chance that it could get worse. Daryl's life sucked pretty damn bad before. But he got used to it and he learned to make the most of what he had. Then the Dead decided to get up and start walking around—tearing people apart every day—and it got bad again. But he got used to it. He learned to make the best of it. Then the government decided to show up and throw him for another loop. They killed his brother and dragged his ass to prison where he got the shit beat out of him for simply looking different than someone wanted him to look. He thought it was as bad as it could get. But then? He got used to it.

This? This was the life of kings in Daryl's opinion. If he had the right to walk his ass out of the front door any time he pleased, then he couldn't really imagine it getting any better. And he was in a hurry—and maybe Carol was to—to get _used to this_ as quickly as possible. There was no telling when it all might turn again and go to shit, so they might as well suck every last drop of "good" out of it before it did.

And that's what they were doing.

Carol opened the door again when she was done. She backed up a little, surprised to see Daryl standing there, and then she smiled at him.

"Miss me that much?" She teased.

"Couldn't hardly stand myself," Daryl responded. "Why didn't you tell her that I don't need them pills?"

Carol laughed.

"Maybe just to see that expression on your face," Carol said. "At the rate we're going? I don't know what good the ovulation tests are going to do me either. I mean—if we don't miss a day we'll certainly hit at least one when I'm ovulating. If I even ovulate." She chewed her lip. "I guess I could take them, though. At least I'd know if I ovulate. And—if I'm ovulating and I don't get pregnant? Maybe we'd have an answer as to whether or not anything is going to happen or if—I'm going to get thrown out of this or something for not having a kid."

Daryl's stomach twisted.

They'd told them it wasn't a requirement. They'd said that if it didn't happen, it didn't matter. But the emphasis was on it happening. It was clear that the expectation was there. Carol was worried, and Daryl was too even if he wouldn't say it to her, that if this didn't work? If there was no kid? The two of them were going right back to where they'd come from.

Or, and Daryl wasn't entirely comfortable yet with the fact that his gut seemed to think of this as the worst possible scenario, they would send Carol back to Region Thirty Three and Daryl would simply be stuck there without her—auctioned off to _stud_ or something of the like.

To cover his own discomfort at the moment, Daryl reached and caught Carol. She came willingly into his arms. He'd never had a woman that came so willingly to him—and he'd never had one that seemed to fit, like she did, so perfectly against him. He dipped his head and she met him for a kiss. She drew it out, long and slow and lazy, until Daryl finally pulled away from her because he was almost choked by the feeling that it brought out in him. He licked his lips and she smirked. She looked so pleased by the fact that she could do that to him.

She raised an eyebrow at him and moved her body against his. She shook her head gently.

"I don't think you need the pills," she said.

Daryl swallowed. He'd be amused, but at the moment there were too many things competing for his brain's attention.

"And I don't think you need the damned tests," Daryl said. "We're doin' this? We're doing it our way. Tell 'em they can't rush us. We're playing by their rules. We're doing what they want. We do it without their stupid ass tests and pills."

A hint of a sincere smile played at Carol's lips.

"You want to?" She asked. "I mean—you _want_ to, but...they'll be here soon to go to lunch."

"And they'll wait too," Daryl said, pulling her with him toward their bedroom. "This is official _government_ business."

Carol came willingly enough to the bed and she peeled back the sheets that were still tangled from the after-breakfast, after-sex nap they'd taken. She pointed to the bed and Daryl didn't have to ask what was on her mind. One thing that happened when they used sex for recreation was that they started to figure each other out pretty quickly.

And Daryl was figuring her out.

She was a little shy about her body at first. She seemed to think that he was going to pick it apart—that he was going to criticize everything about it. When they were together the first time, the _very first time_ , he hadn't been able to see her that clearly. The first time here, she'd gone into a speech that took twenty minutes and robbed him of his erection simply because she told him everything that he should think was _wrong_ with her. And then, to add insult to injury, she'd firmly believed that the need to coax his dick back to life had something to do with her body and not at all with the images she was putting in his head while she described a body to him—a body that was most definitely _not_ hers.

So Daryl had been sure to pay special attention to everything that she'd pointed out to him that he'd hate—and he'd done his best to show her that he didn't hate any of it.

He could see himself in the shower, and in the bathroom mirror, and he knew that there was a whole lot of story written across his skin too. But it didn't bother Carol. And her story didn't bother him, either.

Now that she was feeling a little more confident, maybe? She didn't stop him from looking. She didn't tell him what he was supposed to see. There was a little something different there when she undressed—at times it almost seemed like she might break into a dance of some sort as she shimmied out of the pajamas that were her uniform in between going out for meals.

Daryl liked that confidence, too, because if she'd done things to his body before that made his mind shut everything else out, she certainly closed him down with the added dose of confidence.

Daryl shucked off his underwear again and crawled onto the bed, following her gesture. He piled the pillows up and reclined on them before he smirked at her and waved his hand at her. She had gestures for him, he had them for her. She cocked her eyebrow at him, tipped her head to the side, and then she came out of the pajamas again. She crawled over the mattress toward him and he reached a hand out that she took before she leaned in and kissed him again.

"They'll be here any minute," she said, her voice low.

"Then we better make it count," he said, just before he returned his lips to hers.

She reached her hand down to touch herself—to speed up the process, maybe—and Daryl responded by repositioning himself so that he could take over for her. He bumped her hand out of the way and she readjusted her body to give him better access, her other hand never leaving his. She curled her fingers tightly around his hand and closed her eyes. He watched her and each expression of something that almost looked like pain let him know that he was doing it right—he was doing what she wanted.

She was easy to read, and Daryl was enjoying learning to read her. He'd never really been one for reading too many books in the last world, but he had a lot of time to spend here—and he was enjoying this story.

"Come on," he said, when he felt like she was ready. He was surprised at his own voice and the way it croaked out of his throat.

Carol nodded at him, the magic broken for a moment when he moved his hand away, and she reached her other hand out to catch his still damp fingers. He held both her hands while she got into position, her body over his, and then she took one of them back to take control of guiding him into her.

It was Daryl's turn to close his eyes.

She must have been as good at figuring him out as he was at reading her. She moved her body just the way he wanted her to. She moved her body, even, in ways that he didn't even _know_ he wanted her to. He bit his lip against the sensation of wanting to flip her over and take control himself. He denied himself that. Instead he simply worked his hips as much as their limited space would allow to meet her with every movement.

He only opened his eyes again right before he came. He felt the tension building and he opened them to see where she was at. Her eyes were closed. Her mouth was partially open. Her features showed that expression of almost-pain before. Daryl gave her a quick warning that she needed to catch up with him, if she could, and she dropped her hand again to finish the job that they'd started earlier.

Daryl reached his peak first, but she came right after him—before he'd failed her entirely—and both of them stayed in their positions until his body took control and separated them. Carol leaned forward, pressing her body against his, and Daryl wrapped his arms around her and held her there while they both worked through the lingering sensations.

He knew it wouldn't last long—the guards would be knocking at their door and barking about food—but he closed his eyes to enjoy the few moments that they did have.

"Well," he said, sucking in a breath and rubbing his fingers over Carol's back, "if it don't happen—they can't say it was lack of effort on our part."

Carol laughed and rolled off of him.

"Get up," she said. "Get dressed. I'm starving."

She got up with her own command and started to get dressed in the clothes that she'd discarded shortly after breakfast. Daryl watched her and chuckled to himself.

"Hey. You're welcome," he said.

"Yeah. You too," Carol responded, a smile spreading across her face as she tossed Daryl's clothes at the bed.


	33. Chapter 33

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **This one is Milton and Andrea, but if you haven't guessed yet, Milton has a somewhat important role to figuring out some of the things you want to know about the government of our new location. There's plenty more to come though.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"So you just _picked_ me and now I'm supposed to have your child?" Andrea asked.

"Children," Milton said. "But not right away. I mean—not at once. It's really not that simple."

"You're lucky I can understand some pretty complicated things," Andrea responded. "And you've got all night to explain them to me."

Trapping Milton really wasn't that hard. Andrea had pretty much gone with the "hands on" strategy and simply backed him into the chair in the living room. The back to the chair and the arms on either side built enough of a cage that he wasn't going anywhere—because he wouldn't dare to come _toward_ Andrea.

Milton looked like he was having a difficult time swallowing, but other than that he was unharmed. And it was Milton, not actually Andrea, who was creating his swallowing problem.

Andrea waited him out a moment, sitting in the chair she'd brought for herself from the table—all the while daring Milton to move, but it was pretty clear that Milton had chosen silence as his plan of attack.

"Milton, I'm not letting you move from this spot until you tell me what I need to know," Andrea said.

"I can't do that," Milton said.

"So I'm just supposed to have your _children_ and you're never supposed to talk to me? That's how it's supposed to work?" Andrea asked. She sat back in her chair and rethought her strategy. Strong-arming Milton would work for some things. However, it wasn't going to work for forcing him to speak—not unless she was willing to actually torture him, which she wasn't. "Milton—I am _not_ an animal," Andrea said, softening her tone. "I'm not. I'm every bit as human as you are. But right now? I couldn't feel more like an animal if they stripped me down naked, tied me up, and dragged me out to the _town square_ or whatever to observe that I was being _covered_ correctly."

Milton's expression changed a little. There was something there beyond the fear with which he normally regarded her. He sat forward a little, though not enough to suggest he was actually entering her space. He was simply changing his position, willingly, so that his neck wouldn't continue to be strained.

"I know you're not an animal," Milton said. "That's why you're here."

"Tell me why I'm here," Andrea said.

Milton still seemed to be struggling to swallow a little, and he kept turning his eyes away from hers like he was looking for an escape, but he was visibly relaxing a little.

"I can't tell you everything," Milton said. "Not yet."

"When can you tell me everything?" Andrea asked. "If not yet? When?"

"When I'm sure that you're part of it," Milton said. "When I know—I won't be looking for someone else."

Andrea sat there. Her stomach rolled. He didn't have to say it. Not with any exact words. She understood it without his putting voice to it. He couldn't tell her much until he knew that she was in this—that they were in this together. And that wasn't going to happen until they were actually working on the so-called project of creating new citizens or whatever it was that they were expected to do.

"Why me?" Andrea asked. Milton just stared at her. "Why did you pick me?" Andrea asked, clarifying her question a little.

Milton shook his head gently.

"You were the right one," he said.

"So you _did_ know before I was put in that line up?" Andrea asked.

Milton nodded.

"Have I seen you before?" Andrea asked. He shook his head.

"No," he said. "But I've seen you. It's more than that."

"What can you tell me?" Andrea asked. "I'm not saying I'll do it and I'm not saying I won't—but what can you tell me? You work for this thing, right? This—project?"

Milton took his time, but he continued to visibly relax. And as he visibly relaxed, he avoided her eyes less and less. She could wait him out. She had nothing but time. Finally, it seemed that her waiting paid off because Milton decided to speak to her again.

"I'm involved in Wave Thirty Three," Milton said. "Along with some other projects. It's important. It's an assimilation project that ties into a larger field of current research."

"It's a breeding project," Andrea said blankly.

Milton hesitated.

"Among other things," he finally agreed, his voice losing some of its strength near the end.

"Because the wilds outnumber the non-wilds?" Andrea asked.

Milton nodded, but it wasn't a definitive nod. It wasn't entirely true. There was more to the story—more she may or may not get out of him.

"We're not wild, Milton," Andrea said. "None of us are. We're human beings. We never stopped being human beings just because—we gave up hot water and regular meals to _survive_. There were people out there—people who were worse than the Dead, even—but they weren't _wild_. They were cruel and they were...were cold-hearted. They were ungoverned and..." She broke off because she wasn't even sure how to explain some of the people that she and Michonne had encountered while they were "out there" in the "wild". Andrea sucked in a breath and shook her head at Milton. "But they weren't wild. They weren't animals. Not really."

"All human beings are animals," Milton said flatly.

"Fair enough," Andrea said. "All human beings are animals. But _some_ human beings are treating _other_ human beings like exhibits at the zoo—and that's not OK."

"That's why I agreed to work with the project," Milton said. "That's why Wave Thirty Three has to be a success."

" _Why_?" Andrea asked, stressing the word. "You can tell me. I don't talk to anyone. I don't see anyone. You can tell me and I can't tell anyone. What's really going on here?"

Milton shook his head at her.

"I can't tell you anything else," he said. "Not yet. Not until I know."

Andrea chewed her lip. Whether he was sworn to secrecy or simply had some strong moral code surrounding what he would and wouldn't talk about when it came to the project, those were the most confident words that Milton had said. He wasn't going to tell her everything she needed to know. Not until he was sure that she was working with him—whatever that might mean.

"Am I part of the project?" Andrea asked.

Milton hesitated.

"Among other things," Milton said.

"At least tell me why," Andrea said. "At least tell me why— _I'm_ the one that you picked. Was there a reason or—did you just pick me out of a pile of mugshots?"

"Everyone chosen for the project was selected for a reason," Milton said.

"So I'm the same as everyone else?" Andrea asked. "Just—just picked out for whatever secret reasons these were?" She got a nod. "So you can—trade me out for anyone here? Throw me back in the pond and pick someone else?" She got something that was a distant cousin to a shake of the head. Milton looked uncomfortable all of a sudden. In fact, Andrea considered whether or not she might move to keep him from throwing up on her. He choked it down, though, even if he didn't speak. "You picked me. For you. Why?" Andrea pressed.

"The possibilities had to be—paired down," Milton said. "You've had a child before, so we knew it was possible."

"That's hundreds of women," Andrea said. " _Thousands_."

"You were L.C. classified," Milton said.

"What does Late Capture status have to do with it?" Andrea asked.

"Late Capture," Milton mused, almost as though he'd never heard the words spoken. "Newest. Least tamed. The closest to being purely wild that we can come and still know that..."

"That?" Andrea pressed when he dropped off.

"That there's some recognition of civilization," Milton said. "Anyone too far gone is disposed of."

"And yet you were ready to piss your pants, Milton, when I told you to sit down," Andrea said. "Why would you want someone that you believe to be as close to wild as is possible without being _too far gone_? Why would you choose that? To _live_ with you?"

Milton audibly swallowed and Andrea considered getting him water. She was a little nervous, though, that he might bolt if she did. Since she wasn't planning on actually putting her hands on him, she didn't want him leaving the place he was currently trapped. She might not get him back for at least another day.

"It wasn't about me," Milton said. "It's about what's best for the project. And—in turn—what's best for everyone. What's best for the whole society."

"For science?" Andrea asked.

"Among other things," Milton said. Andrea was learning it was his go-to response to keep from fully answering. It was his way of saying she was "warm" but she wasn't "hot". There were pieces she was missing—pieces he wasn't going to give her.

"So I've had a baby," Andrea said. "And I'm a Late Capture. There were others that fit that. What's the rest of the criteria for me?"

"You're intelligent," Milton said. "You're—not _like me_. You stand up to them, but not so much that you got yourself eliminated."

"Challenging?" Andrea asked. She got a semi-nod. "And?"

"There was a certain amount of consideration paid to other desirable and inheritable traits," Milton said. "But in the interest of the project? Those could be overlooked."

Andrea laughed to herself. She raised her eyebrows at him.

"Is that Milton's way of saying I'm _pretty_?" Andrea asked.

His eyes darted off. It was confirmation enough for the moment.

Andrea sucked in a breath and looked around too. Milton was looking for an escape route. Andrea was looking for some kind of answer—something to help her figure out what she was doing here. There was nothing written on the walls, though, to help her, despite what she might think by watching Milton's eyes.

"If I were to have a baby," Andrea said. "Would they take it away from you? Would you take it away from me?" Milton stared at her, brows furrowed. "Would _anyone_ take it away from me?"

"No," Milton said confidently. "No. That's not—my intention. That's not anyone's attention. I suppose that—if there were a _reason_ to..."

"But it's not part of the project?" Andrea asked. He shook his head at her. At least it was a true shake and not one of the ones that left her feeling like she was missing large chunks of information.

She nodded her acceptance and sat back in her chair. She crossed her arms across her chest.

"You're saying that I'm more important here than other people?" Andrea asked. "That it's more important if I have a baby than anyone else?"

"Wave Thirty Three is an assimilation project," Milton said. "Reproduction and citizen rearing are at the core of the project."

"I get it," Andrea said, interrupting him. "It's a breeding project and everyone needs to breed. But—you're saying that I'm somehow—more important because you chose me?"

"I'm more important," Milton said blankly.

"Touché," Andrea responded. "You can't tell me everything now. You've told me that much. When can you tell me?"

"When I'm sure," Milton said.

"And that's when?" Andrea asked. "Do the lines just have to appear or—are we talking I don't know anything until the umbilical cord is cut? Give me a timeline, Milton."

"When I'm sure," he repeated.

Andrea sucked her teeth. He'd apparently rehearsed with himself something like this. Maybe he'd expected some kind of hostile takeover. After all, he _was_ voluntarily living with someone as close to completely wild as was possible in captivity. Andrea leaned forward.

"Do you know where babies come from, Milton?" Andrea asked. He gave her a confused look and she wasn't entirely certain if it was because of the question itself or if it was in response to the fact that he didn't know the answer to the question. "Because—if I'm going to be pregnant? You've got to put the proverbial lime in the coconut so I can _shake it up_. Do you understand?" He writhed a little in his seat. Andrea was almost certain that Milton had never done what she was proposing—and he didn't look like he was exactly chomping at the bit to get down to business. "It's not the most exciting thing on my to-do list either," Andrea offered. "I can promise you that but— _something's_ going to have to happen. Because that's just how this works. For me to get pregnant? I've got half the necessary components, but I'm going to need what you've got too."

Milton nodded and Andrea almost laughed at his expression. If she'd sentenced him to death he might not have appeared so uncomfortable.

"Unless," Andrea offered, "you're open to some suggestions. Alternative methods? Because—I might have a few ideas."


	34. Chapter 34

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

As soon as Carol spotted Michonne in the dining hall, the first truly familiar face that she'd seen in some time, she made a bee line straight for the woman and practically threw herself into the seat across from her lest somebody swoop in and steal it in the short amount of time that passed between spotting the woman and crossing the floor to snag the seat. Daryl was coming with his own tray, a few steps behind her, but he didn't feel the same sense of urgency.

Michonne's hand immediately came across the table and wrapped around Carol's and Carol grabbed hers back, relishing for a moment the ability to publically touch a friend without reprimand.

"You look _amazing_ ," Michonne said immediately. "You're radiant. Solitary confinement must be agreeing with you."

As soon as Daryl sat down, Michonne nodded her head in his direction and offered his name as greeting. He quickly returned the gesture before turning his attention to T-Dog who sat at Michonne's side and paid close attention to his food.

"It hasn't exactly been _solitary_ ," Carol said, casting a glance at Daryl. Michonne smiled at her.

"Well, whatever you're doing," Michonne said, "it's agreeing with you."

"We're being good citizens," Daryl said. "Best behavior. Doing exactly what they expect of us."

"How is the community treating you?" Carol asked, directing her question to fall somewhere between Michonne and T-Dog so that either of them could pick it up. They exchanged glances.

"We're adjusting," Michonne said. "Slowly."

"We're waiting out the time until they get around to finally giving us jobs," T-Dog said. "At least then we get some kind of purpose. We get something we can _do_."

Daryl snorted, but he quickly got it under control. Even without saying it, Carol could feel what he was thinking. They hadn't exactly had a lot of idle hours in which they'd given much thought to having a purpose. Still, she could understand some of the possible problems confronting Michonne and T-Dog.

"Any word on the jobs?" Carol asked.

"Don't you watch the weather channel?" Michonne asked. Carol glanced at Daryl again and then she turned her face back in time to see Michonne roll her eyes at her. "No word. There's some kind of wrench in the gears for the moment. They're telling everyone to hold tight. Just sit around twiddling your thumbs and eventually they'll let you out of your house."

"Name yet?" Carol asked. "For the community?"

Michonne shook her head.

"End of the week. They're still taking suggestions. I put mine in for Pleasantville and T voted for Cabbage Patch Land," Michonne said. "Three or four times. We had some extra time to kill."

Carol laughed to herself and looked at T-Dog who was almost done with all of the food on his tray.

"How are you holding in there?" Carol asked.

He cut his eyes at Michonne and cleared his throat.

"The old adage wasn't wrong," T-Dog said. "When she's not happy? Nobody's happy. I'm just hoping we get the jobs soon so she can get out and blow off some steam. I need something, for my sanity, that's going to make her at least a little bit happy."

Michonne elbowed T-Dog and Carol caught a smile crossing the woman's lips. Maybe their household arrangement wasn't paradise, and maybe they weren't enjoying their vacation from reality as much as Carol and Daryl were, but it was clear that there was _something_ there. They might not have a romantic relationship—Carol couldn't begin to assert that they were lying about that—but they were certainly developing a certain _easiness_ with each other.

Carol glanced around the crowded mess hall. In an attempt to not have the madness that they'd had the past few days—clearly there were a good number of bugs still being worked out of the system—they were feeding them in shifts now. Carol didn't know if that would be a permanent thing or if they had something else in the works, but for now it at least allowed them all to eat sitting down and allowed for a little more breathing room. At the door, inmates were still filing in to get in line as their "guards" dropped them off with the other guards that were keeping watch out for any trouble that might get stirred up in the mess hall. As far as Carol was aware, though, there hadn't been any issues since they'd arrived.

When Carol saw the guards speaking to one man, she almost didn't recognize the woman on his arm. She might have missed her entirely if she hadn't glanced around the room and clearly shown Carol her face. Carol threw a hand up and waved quickly, catching her attention, before she reached across the table and slapped at Michonne.

"I see something else that's going to make you happy!" Carol declared.

Michonne turned and, as soon as she noticed Andrea, her body language changed entirely. She almost came out of her seat but restrained herself enough to tensely sit there while a guard escorted Andrea and the man that had chosen her to the table. As they neared, Michonne finally got up and wrapped Andrea in a hug. She swayed her body, nearly toppling Andrea and herself to the floor.

"Inmate," the guard warned.

"Oh! She's fine," Andrea declared, returning Michonne's hard hug with almost equal enthusiasm. "She's _wonderful_." As soon as Andrea seemed to give the "OK," the guard allowed the affection to continue. When they broke, Carol didn't miss Michonne wiping at her eyes as she sat down and T-Dog shifted to allow space between he and Michonne for Andrea to sit. Before she sat, though, she offered her arms to Carol for a hug and Carol met her—even if she didn't squeeze her with the same enthusiasm that Michonne had employed.

The man that Andrea was with stood by awkwardly as he watched the reunion. Carol greeted him as soon as she sat, Andrea had already taken her seat and was already leaning into Michonne who didn't protest the closeness in the slightest.

"Milton," Andrea said, "this is Carol and Michonne. That's Daryl and this is..."

"T-Dog," T-Dog offered when it was clear that Andrea got hung on his name.

"Have a seat, man," Daryl said, apparently noticing that Milton couldn't look more uncomfortable if he actually tried. Milton hesitated, but finally he did accept the seat that put him to Daryl's left and straight across the table from T-Dog. The guard that had brought them in continued to stand at the head of the table. He didn't seem to be leaving like all the other guards.

"We're fine," Andrea said, addressing the guard. "We just need— _food_."

The guard looked to Milton and Milton nodded and offered a quiet "thank you" in anticipation of food. The guard left them, then, and apparently went to get trays for the both of them.

Carol was sure that something was up. It seemed that Andrea had slipped and, somehow, tumbled into a position where she was, very clearly, a little more _important_ the rest of them. Of course, her importance could be entirely dependent on her proximity to the man that was, if Carol remembered their introductions upon entering the community correctly, practically their president or something of the like.

It was equally clear that Milton—president or otherwise—wasn't feeling exactly _at home_ with all of them and his presence there was drawing the concern of the guards and the interest of some of the other inmates that kept glancing over at their table.

Everyone else at the table seemed to sense it too, because they immediately began trying to engage Andrea and Milton both in idle chat about how things were going—the things that were becoming the new _normal_ of their lives now. Andrea joined in the chat, speculating about jobs and talking about possible names for their community and how lonely she'd been, but Milton just sat stiffly in his place and kept casting glances back toward the serving area. Like T-Dog had been earlier, the man seemed anxious to get his hands on his food and consume his meal.

His meal came quickly enough—faster than it would have been if they'd been expected to wait in line like everyone else—and a guard put a tray down in front of Andrea at the same time as a tray was placed in front of Milton.

"I'm gonna say it," Daryl said, as soon as the guards had let Milton know that he should only ask if he needed anything else and walked back to stand along the wall and watch things, "what's with the VIP service?"

"Milton is a very important member of the community," Andrea said. Milton looked troubled by having this pointed out.

"Yeah, but you're just—Andrea," Daryl said. "LC457."

"LC456F," Michonne corrected quickly. "I'm LC457F."

"Whatever," Daryl said with a snort. "Point is, you're just Andrea."

"I'm Milton's..." Andrea hesitated. She looked to the man but he didn't offer her anything. He was too busy performing some kind of dissection on his food to help Andrea with her wording dilemmas. _"Mate."_ Andrea finally finished. Milton didn't contradict her.

And, maybe, that was the best word for any of them here. They were being paired up to mate. That was, at least as far as Carol could tell, the whole point of this place. Things might change some once they had it up and fully functional, but right now they were simply _mating_.

Carol turned back to her food, half paying attention to the idle conversation around her, and only looked up again when someone passing by _stopped_ walking. She glanced up, not knowing whether or not to expect trouble. She felt, though, that her body was naturally on guard whether it was necessary or not.

"Mr. Mamet," the woman said. Carol recognized her, but she couldn't put her finger on _why_ at the moment. She was wearing nothing more than the customary "uniform" that everyone who worked for the community was wearing. "I didn't expect to see you out here, dining with the regulars."

There was no bite to her voice and it was clear that the woman knew Milton, even if Carol suspected he might be a difficult man to get to know. He perked up a little, though, at her presence and cleared his throat.

"Dr. Walker," he said. "I thought you would have your meals delivered."

Immediately Carol realized where she recognized her from. She'd been the one who'd dropped by the house with a bag full of "supplies" that she and Daryl hadn't touched. She'd been at the prison, too, and Carol was sure that she'd seen the woman's face more than a few times.

The doctor shook her head.

"There's not much going on right now," she said. "So—sometimes I like to come down here and eat. Gives me a chance to talk to some people. Get some sunlight. See how everything's going. It's Andrea. Right?" She asked, directing her attention to Andrea. Andrea looked at her and nodded. "How are things?"

"Fine," Andrea said. "It's going to be even better if we could get some kind of job."

"Amen," T-Dog asserted.

The doctor looked at Milton.

"Have you heard anything else on the job status?" She asked. He shook his head.

"You would hear about that before me," he said. She smiled.

"Common issues," she said. She shook her head and addressed Andrea and T-Dog at the same time. "As far as I know, they're still working out some details. Looking through the forms you filled out, there's just a lot of juggling that has to go into figuring out how to place so many inmates with specialized backgrounds. If some of you wanted, though, you could put slips in with your order forms. If you were willing to do common jobs? Just—laundry and food preparation? Grounds crew and—construction? They'd probably get people placed more quickly. Maybe even almost immediately. That's what they're needing the most of right now. People to contribute to the basics of building the community."

T-Dog smiled genuinely and Carol could see that everyone else was pleased with this knowledge as well.

"Thanks for the tip," T-Dog offered.

"No problem," the doctor responded. "Ladies? Anything to _report_? Anything that I should know about?"

Carol's stomach churned a little. She might blame it on the food, but really she knew it was her natural reaction to the fact that she knew _exactly_ what the woman was concerned with—and she didn't know how it might play out for them if they didn't have something to report soon. Michonne shook her head, as Carol expected. Andrea mirrored the response. The woman's eyes fell on Carol. Carol shook her head.

"No," Carol said, "but—I would like the chance to _talk_ to you? In private?"

The woman nodded and renewed her smile.

"All you have to do is pick up your phone," she said. "Tell them you need an escort to the clinic and they'll bring you. I'm pretty wide open right now, so have your shoes on when you call. You won't need to wait long." Carol nodded. "Anything I should be excited about?" The woman asked.

Carol swallowed.

"I'd just like to talk," she said.

"Talking I can do," the woman responded. "Mr. Mamet? Are things going _well_?"

Carol glanced at Andrea. She had an almost nauseous look on her face that came with the general discomfort of what they were discussing. Milton, though he'd seemed happy with the woman's presence earlier, didn't look too much farther from losing his lunch than Andrea did. He put on a clearly forced smile.

"Great," he said. "We have a lot of hope that— _soon._ Today is uh—today is an ovulation day."

Carol cringed for Andrea and Andrea drew into herself a little. Her face didn't hide the fact that she didn't really want _that_ broadcast at lunch.

The doctor seemed completely unbothered by it, though. In fact, she offered her congratulations and wished them "luck" before she excused herself by saying that it was getting crowded and she wanted to eat before her food was entirely cold. She reminded all of them to be sure to call as soon as they had anything at all that they wanted to discuss with her.

As soon as she walked off, Carol reached a hand in Andrea's direction and touched her fingertips just as consolation for the fact that—though their lives were a little more private here than they'd been at Region Thirty Three—there was no such thing as privacy.

Andrea sucked in a breath.

"I guess—that just about catches you up to date on me," she said, her face red. She was attempting to let it roll off of her, though. "Really—I just dragged Milton here so that I could find you and let you know that...T? Mich? Don't be surprised when a guard comes to your house this evening. You're—invited to dinner. At our house."

Daryl laughed to himself and bumped Carol.

"And now we're the black sheep," he teased. "Not invited to dinner with the damn royals."

"Some other time," Andrea said. "I promise. Tonight? It's just the four of us."


	35. Chapter 35

**AN: The next chapter we'll be looking at some Caryl for those who worry about when it's coming up. There's a lot of people that play into this story, though, and a lot more to the premise than just the Caryl relationship. As for this chapter? The two parts are somewhat meant to run simultaneously. They're just different parts of the same evening.**

 **I only know that a few of you are reading this, and most of you that I know are reading don't need the warning, but if anybody is reading that needs it, the first part is Michandrea. It's not terribly graphic, at least in my opinion.**

 **I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Andrea sat, naked as she'd been instructed by Michonne, on the bed and stared at the door until Michonne opened it. She was, in theory, supposed to be reclining there. She was supposed to be _relaxing_. In practice she was so tense that her muscles were starting to ache. When Michonne came in, she immediately closed the door behind her and crossed the room to put the large bowl she was carrying down on the table.

"Warm water will keep it warm," Michonne said. "Buys us a little time, but we're going to have to be pretty quick about it. It's all about you tonight, princess," she teased.

Andrea glanced at the bowl and swallowed down a little of her concern over the whole situation. It was the best plan that they could come up with that suited everyone involved, but the whole thing was still not the most comfortable situation that Andrea could ever recall being in.

"Shit, Mich," Andrea said. "You couldn't find something _bigger_ in Milton's lab?"

Michonne frowned at Andrea.

"It was last minute," Michonne said. "Have you ever negotiated with Milton? He didn't exactly seem to have a ton of choices. And that's the smallest thing I could find that I was sure was going to work. So unless—you want it straight from the source? That's the best we can do."

Andrea sighed.

"Milton would probably _fit_ better," Andrea said. "All of him. His _whole body_."

"Now you're being dramatic," Michonne said, crawling onto the bed and gathering up her so-called _supplies_. "And we don't have time for dramatics. These guys only live twenty minutes outside of the body and the clock is already ticking. It has been for a while. I had to get them in there and get across the house and that's only because T met me with the water. This has been an all hands on deck operation and it's time for you to do your part. Besides, I've got enough stuff here to ease things along that I'm pretty sure I could get a Buick in there without you noticing too much."

Andrea groaned and dropped back against the pillow she was supposed to have been reclining against for the past half hour or so that she'd been waiting on Michonne to return.

"This is the most romantic night of my life," she said, not trying to hold her sarcasm back.

Michonne snorted.

"And how hot do you think it was for me?" Michonne asked. "Waiting for the delivery? Standing outside a door and asking if I could offer a hand or some—reading material or something? And then? I was the one that found the syringe. Milton apparently just thought we could hang you from the ceiling and dump it in.'

Andrea gagged and Michonne quickly swiped her hand across her face to try to soothe over the fit. She apologized, but the humor on her face said she was only somewhat sorry.

"It's you next," Andrea said. "So enjoy this all you want."

"Another night," Michonne said. "You're ovulating. And I don't know why—but Milton says this is important enough that the whole thing could fall apart without it. So—let's get on this? Otherwise? We're doing it again next month."

Andrea shook her head.

"I love you too," Andrea said. "I'm so— _excited_ about our future together."

Michonne covered her lips quickly with her own and took Andrea's breath away with a kiss. She had a way of doing that and, by now, Andrea knew it was also a way to get her to stop talking. And Michonne was right. They had a very limited amount of time to work with. Their quick research, done with information that had probably mortified Milton to do at the office to bring to them, told Andrea her best odds were tonight and they were best if she could, at the very least, be _aroused_. Climax, their home-made booklet informed them, could help to guarantee things even more—but beggars couldn't very well be choosers and Andrea knew that it was going to be difficult to get herself far enough over the hump of her own nerves enough for that.

"I love you," Michonne said, almost urgently when she broke the kiss. She reached and stroked Andrea, rubbing her with clear intention, to say that she wasn't playing anymore. Michonne did everything _to win_ and this game was no different. "And—I love that this could be the night that we conceive a baby that we're going to raise _together_. Nothing else matters right now, right?" Andrea couldn't say anything before Michonne continued, and she really didn't want to say anything. She relaxed into the nest that Michonne had built her because Michonne—at the very least—knew the right things to do to get Andrea's attention. "Nobody is here to stop us, and they won't stop us. _Ever_. We are not in a broom closet. We are not—sneaking around somewhere. We're not in the dirt in the woods. We are on thousand thread count sheets and we're doing something _wonderful_ and later? You get all the romance you want. So just—close your eyes—and _relax_." Andrea did close her eyes and she accepted Michonne's kisses. She heard her clanking around, felt the efforts of her trying to multitask and prepare things while she teased her, and Andrea focused on her breathing for a moment. She didn't open her eyes again until Michonne was done with her job and finally dropped down on the bed beside Andrea and kissed her face while she continued to tease her with her fingertips.

Andrea opened her eyes and looked at Michonne who was staring at her with the tell-tale line of concern between her brows.

"You OK?" MIchonne asked.

"I don't know," Andrea admitted.

"It wasn't that bad," Michonne said. "You hardly flinched."

Andrea shook her head.

"It's not that," Andrea said. "You can stop." Michonne stopped touching her and, instead, wrapped an arm around her and absentmindedly trailed her fingertips on Andrea's skin. "It's the whole thing, Mich. If I get pregnant? Who's going to stop them from taking it again? Because—we couldn't."

"Out there? They had an advantage," Michonne said. "They had surprise. They had guns where we only had blades. In here? The one thing I know is we outnumber them. Prisoners to guards—or whatever we're called now. _Wilds_ to non-wilds. They're outnumbered. This time? They have to play fair. Besides—that's the one thing Milton _promised_ me. And I don't think he's the kind of guy that can lie with his dick in his hand."

"So you believe him?" Andrea asked.

Michonne sighed.

"If it were about the sex? I wouldn't be here right now. You know that. I—don't know everything, because he won't tell everything. But—I believe that Milton believes in what he's doing. So—I've just got to believe him," Michonne said. "Now—let me up a minute to get some pillows. You're staying like this for at least half an hour."

Andrea laughed to herself at the ridiculous situation that she was in. Still, Michonne's words brought an odd sort of peace to her. Michonne hardly ever trusted anyone. Andrea doubted that she had before the world had turned. So if she trusted Milton? Maybe things could somehow go their way.

"Can you stay the night, Mich?" Andrea asked. She watched as Michonne gathered up the pillows that she'd brought into the room earlier and put on one of the unnecessary chairs. "I just—I've been alone a lot lately. And I kind of don't want to be alone. Not right now."

Michonne turned back, starting toward the bed with her arms loaded down. She brought the pillows over and Andrea lifted her body up enough for Michonne to stack them under her hips.

"When I go back out there? I'll tell T he can go home if he wants to," Michonne said. "But—if Milton will let me? I'll stay the night. Stay here. I'll get you an extra blanket."

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"This is about the most uncomfortable I've ever felt in my _life_ ," T-Dog said. "And I've been in some pretty fucked up situations, if you catch my drift."

He'd talked Milton—his companion for the evening, apparently—into at least having a beer with him while they waited for Michonne and Andrea to do whatever they had to do surrounding what T-Dog could only think of as the great fertilization project.

Milton wasn't drinking his beer, though, so T-Dog had let him the have the one to hold and had already decided the other five were his reward for simply hanging in there through all of this. Milton, after all, wasn't the greatest company and he seemed very distracted over whether or not this was going to go the way that he wanted it to go. The man looked a little amused, though, at T-Dog's statement.

"I can assure you that this isn't the most comfortable experience that I can recall either," Milton said.

"So you're gay or what?" T-Dog asked. Milton looked at him and furrowed his brow. "Or was it Andrea that vetoed the uh—more traditional methods?"

Milton swallowed. He tasted the beer then, but he made the same face that he'd made the first time he'd tried it. Clearly he didn't care for the flavor at all.

"Mostly the _or what_ that you mentioned," Milton said.

"So what's it all about?" T-Dog asked. "Why the big baby rush? Just—building numbers?" Milton didn't respond to him. He simply stared at him like he was trying to see through him—or like he _could_ see through him. "It's gotta be more than just the numbers, right?"

Milton nodded his head gently.

"Numbers," Milton said. "Among other things."

"I get it," T-Dog said. "You're not going to tell me. Not yet, right? That's what you told Michonne. Not until—there's something there?" Milton nodded his head. "But whatever kids we have? They're ours to keep?" Another nod. "Because, you know, if you're lying about that? Andrea will probably cut your throat while you sleep," T-Dog said. "If you think she's wild at all? You haven't seen hormones. And—worse than that? You haven't seen _mother_ hormones."

Milton stared at him a little wide eyed.

"I hardly think there's a need for that," Milton said. "But—there's a lock on my door. Just in case."

T-Dog laughed to himself. He almost felt bad for fucking with the man. He seemed sincere enough, even if he was determined to keep his secrets until Andrea at least promised him that she was in the _family way_. Still, T-Dog couldn't help himself.

"You think a lock will stop her? Man, you really don't know anything," T-Dog said.

Milton shifted around in his seat.

"I sincerely hope a lock would stop her," Milton said. "I hope that—she wouldn't dare to try something like that in the first place. Because if that's the case? Then the entire attempt to spread the belief that those considered wild are, in fact, _not_ wild is ludicrous. It would make more sense to reserve resources and go ahead with the extermination. To begin again with a clean slate if there's no real hope of rehabilitation and those that are wild do, in fact, remain wild."

T-Dog's stomach clenched with Milton's words and his tone of voice. He realized that, maybe, jokes had a time and place. And, more than that, maybe they had a particular audience. Milton might not be that audience.

"Hey," T-Dog offered, "Man, I was just—making that up. Just giving you a hard time. Man to man. Andrea? I don't know that she's ever even killed anyone that she didn't have to kill. I don't know that much about her. Maybe she's never even killed anyone. Ever. But what I do know? She's not really the violent type. Less wild, I guess you could say, than a lot of people I've known."

"She's a Late Capture," Milton said. "That would indicate that she's actually _wilder_."

"More time out there," T-Dog said. "Sure. More equipped to survive, maybe. But—I think she's a pretty gentle person. Point is—I don't really think she'd cut your throat or break your lock." Milton visibly relaxed. It was working. "It was just a joke." T-Dog chuckled to himself. "I mean the hormones part wasn't. She might _say_ she's going to do something like that. But I don't think you have anything to worry about." Milton relaxed a little more. Now he was actually reclining again in his spot. "Of course—if you try to take her kid...that really could be a whole different ballgame."

"It goes against the entire premise of the project," Milton said. "The only way that the child would be removed from Andrea's care would be if Andrea was a threat to the child."

T-Dog tasted the beer. It had a strong hint of something floral and the warmer it got the stronger that taste became.

"Andrea won't threaten her child," T-Dog said. "Michonne either. So—I guess we have nothing to worry about."

T-Dog knew, though, that none of them were much into the practice of giving up their worrying. At least, not entirely.


	36. Chapter 36

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here. There's plenty more to come.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Carol watched as the doctor passed off the vial of blood to someone waiting just outside the door and the person traded her a fat manila folder. The doctor went to her computer to type something—on a profile she'd made magically appear by scanning Carol's chip—and then she rolled her chair over to place herself directly in front of Carol.

"They're super-fast," the doctor said. "We'll know before you leave."

"I think I'm just—a little amazed that you haven't asked me to take off my clothes," Carol mused. The most she'd been asked to do was roll up the sleeve of her shirt to allow her chip to be scanned and the blood to be drawn. Despite the fact that she was still shaking from her initial nerves of being escorted to the clinic, it was the most relaxed that Carol had felt in a clinic since she'd been captured.

The doctor laughed to herself at Carol's observation.

"Well, I'm not going to promise that it doesn't happen at all in the course of your visit, but there's no need for it just yet," the doctor said.

"At Region Thirty Three?" Carol responded. "It was every visit. No matter what. Strip, _inmate_."

"I know," the doctor said. "I worked there on rotations. I've seen you a few times. Coming out of taming. I did the workups for Wave Thirty Three. But—you probably don't remember me. I wrote you down as a high-trauma, high-stress case. You were worked up enough to risk dissociating on me."

"It was you?" Carol asked. "I remember—the appointment but..."

The doctor nodded.

"Dr. Walker," she said. "And you're Carol. And you're with..."

"Daryl," Carol offered. She got a smile and a head nod.

"The nudity was a practicality in most cases," Dr. Walker explained. "Some of the _inmates_ that came in could get violent. They could—lose all rationality. So often you ended up cutting the clothes off them for one thing or another while they were restrained that—it just became _law_ that all medical exams were done _after_ stripping the patient."

Carol swallowed.

"And more than a little bit of it, don't you think, was to remind us that we're animals?" Carol asked. Her stomach churned. She wondered how the doctor might react. She might, for such a daring comment, call someone to come and restrain Carol even now. She didn't, though. She just barely nodded her head.

"Do you think you're an animal?" Dr. Walker asked, rocking in the chair.

"Sometimes I have," Carol admitted.

"Sometimes we all are," Dr. Walker said. "We're the highest animals on the food chain, perhaps, but we're all innately animals. I don't believe, though, that you're any more animal than I am. Do you? We're both capable of reason. We're both capable of—intelligent conversation. We both have thumbs."

"Have you ever been tied up in a dark room?" Carol asked. "Ever been tortured until you—blacked out because your brain finally had mercy on your body? Ever been made to—use the bathroom on yourself because no one would untie you to let you go with dignity?"

She realized she was shaking again and the doctor must have seen it too. She cast a glance at Carol's hands before she looked back at her and shook her head.

"No," she said. "And I'm—sorry for that. I'm sorry for—what you've been through. But you can't hold it against me that I wasn't out there for very long because—I'm _here_ to try to make sure that _you_ never go through that again. That's why I'm here." Carol swallowed and nodded at her. Dr. Walker flipped over her folder and turned her attention to the pages inside. "Let's talk about why you're here. Can we talk, for a moment, about your previous pregnancies? You reported—miscarriages and a successful pregnancy. Can you tell me about that?"

Carol sucked in a breath.

"I don't know what you want me to tell you. The miscarriage—and there was just one that I'm aware of—was a long time ago. After that? I had Sophia," Carol said. "The government took her at capture."

Dr. Walker nodded.

"Was Sophia born before or after the turn?" She asked.

"Before," Carol said. "I don't think I would've wanted to do that out there. Andrea—I know her son was born out there. From what I've heard, he was born in a meat locker while the Dead scratched at the doors and tried to get in to them. I had my baby in a hospital. I wouldn't want—to do it any other way."

"Here you'll have that option," Dr. Walker said. "The hospital option, not the meat locker. In the hospital or—if you prefer and everything's going well enough? At home. The choice will be up to you if there aren't medical concerns coming into play."

"And then what?" Carol asked. The doctor cocked an eyebrow at her. "After the baby's born. What happens? Walk me through it."

"You've had a baby before," Dr. Walker said.

"Humor me," Carol said. "While we wait?"

The doctor stared at her and finally nodded her head.

"You'll deliver. I'll probably be the one assisting you, but if I'm not? We'll just say I am. I'll cut the cord. Or Darren?"

"Daryl," Carol corrected.

"He'll cut it if he's so inclined," Dr. Walker said. "If there are no problems with you or the baby? We'll give you about half an hour to an hour to just be there. I'll clean you up and—do whatever I need to do be sure that you're on the way to recovery. When you're ready, the baby will be taken to be cleaned up and checked over again." She held her hand up quickly to Carol to stop her if she was considering saying anything. "And then the baby will be returned to you. Yours. For good. To keep. I'll pinky promise you or—swear a blood brother oath or whatever—if that's what you want from me."

Carol's throat ached badly enough that if she didn't know what it was coming from, she might have asked the doctor to make sure that she wasn't suddenly developing some kind of rapidly growing tumor.

"That's it?" Carol asked.

"I understand your concern," Dr. Walker said. "I do. Believe me. But the only way you lose this baby? Is if you reject it or you threaten its well-being. We have to have that clause in place because—while we suspect that we know what we're working with? We don't _know_."

"You said you believed I was human," Carol said.

"I do," Dr. Walker said. "But humans are animals. And some animals? They eat their young."

Carol swallowed again. She didn't want to admit that everything stirring around inside of her almost made her want to vomit, so she simply kept swallowing it all down.

"I don't know if I can get pregnant," Carol said. She shook her head gently. "I don't know if I'm too old or—I just can't. And before? I never would've even thought of that as a disadvantage. But right now? I don't want to leave this project. And—more than that? I think—I _want_ to have a family with Daryl. If all this is real? If this world is real? I really _want_ it, but I don't know if I'll get it."

"It's still early," Dr. Walker said. "There's still plenty of time. They won't ask you to leave the project if you don't, but it's—better for all of us if you do."

"Then can you help me?" Carol asked. "Do _something_ to help me make sure?"

The doctor sucked in a deep breath and pushed back her chair a little. She got up and put the file across the room, near the computer. She scrolled through whatever she had there on the screen and Carol watched her as she flicked through some windows like she'd forgotten that Carol was sitting on the table, still holding the cotton ball in the crook her of her arm though it was unnecessary by now, waiting for a response to a question.

Then the doctor got up, went to the phone on the wall, and lifted the receiver. She dialed a few numbers and then stood there, twisting the cord around her fingers, and spoke to someone quietly that had answered from some other location. Carol focused on the floor and the empty walls of the room. She focused on everything she could except for the doctor. Finally, the woman hung up the phone and returned to her computer. She picked up the file she'd only recently discarded and turned back to Carol, crossing her arms across her chest.

"No?" Carol asked.

"I need you to tell me—that you're pregnant," Dr. Walker said. Carol didn't try to hide the question in her expression. "I need you to tell me—that you're pregnant," the doctor repeated.

"You're the one that just—took the phone call," Carol offered.

The doctor sat down in the chair again and rocked it with her foot. She was nodding her head to herself, but she didn't address Carol for at least a couple of moments. When she did address her, her expression was serious.

"You seem like a very rational and reasonable _person_ ," Dr. Walker said.

Carol swallowed.

"I like to think I am," she said. "Most of the time."

"You seem like—the kind of _person_ that wants to be as helpful to everyone as she can be, especially if it doesn't hurt anyone," Dr. Walker said. Carol nodded.

"I can accept that," she agreed.

"You seem like the kind of person that would be willing to make a deal," Dr. Walker said. "What you want or need for what someone else wants or needs. All parties benefitting, of course." Carol nodded and the doctor rolled her chair closer to her with the toe of her shoe. "You seem like the kind of woman that can keep a _secret_ ," the doctor said.

Carol's stomach churned. Of course she could keep a secret. They could all keep secrets. The only way that many of them survived captivity and had even a shred of positive experience was being able to keep secrets.

"What do you want?" Carol asked.

"I want you to tell me you're pregnant," Dr. Walker said. "I want you to _be_ pregnant."

"If I am—I am," Carol said. "If I'm not..."

"Are you?" Dr. Walker asked.

"I don't know," Carol said. She laughed to herself. "That's—at least partly what all this was about."

The woman sucked in a breath and let it out as a sigh.

"How well can you keep a secret?" Dr. Walker asked.

"As well as you want me to," Carol said. The doctor nodded.

"Wave Thirty Three needs confirmed pregnancies and it needs them soon," Dr. Walker said. "They don't have to be successful. The government isn't entirely unreasonable. Things happen and pregnancies spontaneously terminate. But to prove that things are in motion? To prove that there's forward progress and they should keep funding this—instead of going ahead with the extinction act? There need to be confirmed pregnancies."

Carol's stomach twisted a little more.

"And you want me to be a confirmed pregnancy," Carol said. She got a nod.

"The first," the doctor said. "My pet project. My most important patient. Well, my second most important patient. Milton is still the head guy in charge and Andrea's..." She broke off. "My most important personal patient."

"I'm not, am I?" Carol asked, lowering her voice. She was sure they were alone, or the doctor wouldn't have dared to tell her this much, but she still felt like she was always under observation. The doctor's eyes told her everything she needed to know. She wasn't pregnant. "Then I don't understand."

"Tell me you're pregnant," Dr. Walker said. "Then _be_ pregnant. I'll back you up. You can't tell anyone, though, what's going on. You can tell your—Daryl? You can tell him, but neither of you can tell _anyone_. As far as everyone else knows? You're pregnant. I'll help you. See you regularly. Eventually? We just—say that something went wrong. It was terrible. Tragic. But something went wrong. You start over—trying again."

Carol understood what the woman was asking of her. She could've asked her why she was asking that of her and not someone else—someone was likely to show up pregnant soon anyway—but she didn't. She simply took it at face value. It was better, she supposed, to be _in_ with the authorities here than it was to be _out_ with them.

"What about your lab people?" Carol asked.

"Believe me, they know how to keep a secret," Dr. Walker said. "Especially an important one."

"You said something was in it for me," Carol said. "What?"

The doctor smiled slightly and wiped the smile away. She shifted around in her chair.

"Science has done a lot of covering ground that we covered before," Dr. Walker said. "There's a lot of reinventing the wheel going on. Here? There's a whole lot of that going on. It's easy to get a line to open up for more experimentation in the name of science here. All you need is a test subject, or a few test subjects, and the assertion that it'll benefit the government. It'll benefit our society. Fertility treatment is something we need to work with again. Just to reestablish the practice. Anonymously? You'd be my test subject. I'd finish the preliminary research on it—tonight even—and get what we need. You'd benefit from the treatment. I'd benefit from the scientific accolades of reintroducing fertility treatment as a viable option in society. And Wave Thirty Three? The project gets its first confirmed pregnancy to keep the government from thinking quite so hard about shutting it down and exterminating all of you."

"When you present it like that," Carol said, "then I guess everyone wins, right?"

"I know you probably don't want to be my guinea pig," Dr. Walker said, "and you don't have to be. I'm just offering that to you because it's the best I've got outside of just—telling you to wait for it to happen and hope for the best. Give it time."

"I have a feeling I've been an un-knowing guinea pig for worse," Carol said. "I'm on board."

"For real?" Dr. Walker asked, raising an eyebrow at Carol. Carol couldn't help but smile at her. She extended her hand in the gesture of handshake. The doctor took it and shook her hand firmly.

"For real," Carol said. "Let's do this. And I won't tell anyone except Daryl. And—he'll be sworn to secrecy."

The doctor smiled at her and released Carol's hand.

"Your hands stopped shaking," she pointed out. Carol hadn't realized it, but she could see that they had when she held them in front of her.

"Is there anything you want to tell me?" The doctor asked.

Carol swallowed.

"I'm pregnant," she said, smiling and shrugging her shoulders. The doctor chuckled.

"Congratulations," she said. "I'll get that entered into the computer and—in a couple of days? I'm going to call you in for an appointment, OK? We'll just—check on things? Get things _started_?"

Carol sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. She wasn't as tense as before, but she still felt tense. Now, though, it was an entirely different sensation of tension.

"When do I start to tell people?" Carol asked.

"As soon as you want," Dr. Walker said. "I'm going to let them know as soon as they ask again. You can tell the guard on the way back to your house if you want. They might even take you on an excursion or something nice—get some sun. You're about to be a pretty big deal around here." Carol laughed to herself and nodded her head. "Relax. Enjoy it. In a couple of days? I'll call you for an appointment."

"Sounds perfect," she said. "I'm sure the guards will know where to find me."

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111

 **AN: So as I'm working on this and planning ahead (because I've planned quite a bit ahead), I just wanted to let everyone know that I've made a few mistakes here or there in the previous chapters (particularly mathematically) and if they bother you when they come up again, you have my sincerest apologies. Math is not my strongest point. I ask for your suspension of disbelief on that.**

 **In fact, I ask for your suspension of disbelief on everything, LOL. But I still hope that you're enjoying and enjoy what's to come.**


	37. Chapter 37

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **For the few questions/concerns that I've seen about what's going on, don't worry. Eventually you're going to know everything. This just happens to be a story where a lot of characters have little pieces they give to you and only a very small number of them actually know everything.**

 **Your questions, though, will mostly all be answered in time.**

 **I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Carol's outing had taken more of the day than she'd really expected to spend on it. It didn't really matter, though, as their days were still much like they'd been at the prison and the passing of them was really only marked by meals and by little else.

Some time had been spent Dr. Walker working out the logistics of their ruse. For some amount of time, the only thing Carol would have to do to play her role was tell everyone her blessed news. If she wanted to go for a truly award winning performance, she could tick off a few symptoms publicly or, in time, openly excuse herself from meal time to insist that not everything was agreeing with the false morning sickness from which she would undoubtedly be suffering. Every pregnancy was different and, with the confirmation of the community's primary physician, there was really very little chance that anyone could question her performance.

After Carol had left the office, she'd feigned some excitement and told the guard that she was expecting. She insisted that she'd like to take a few things home with her to surprise her "companion"—given that she couldn't stomach referring to Daryl as her "mate"—and she'd been given a slightly more comprehensive tour of the community than she'd ever had before while she was escorted to the place that the guard called their "warehouse".

Their community, from what Carol could see, had the potential to be fairly self-sufficient—though they did bring in many goods from outside for convenience and variety. While she was out, Carol pressed the guard for any information she could about potential jobs and, consequently, greater freedoms for all of them, but the guard insisted that he had no information beyond the fact that they were more likely to begin in community building roles than they were in more specialized roles.

Her outing complete, and a few things acquired, and the guard returned Carol to her house where Daryl was waiting for news of any sort.

Carol thanked the guard for her escort, and the extra time spent with her, and she accepted his congratulations—something she was going to have to become accustomed to. When she closed the door to the house behind her, and listened to the lock engage from the outside, she quickly found Daryl sitting at their small table and working the same puzzle he'd just started when she left. It was almost complete now and he was so absorbed in his activity that he didn't look up to acknowledge her presence.

Carol took her few possessions to the kitchen and, from one of the bags, she selected the bottle of sparkling juice. She'd have preferred wine, but she couldn't very well declare she was pregnant and then make a show of picking something out to intoxicate the fictional fetus. The juice would have to do for their fake celebration and Carol's explanation to Daryl of the plan that she'd gotten them involved in.

Carol brought the wine glasses of juice with her and put one down on the table near the corner of Daryl's puzzle. The puzzle had come in a white box with no other information on it than it was a puzzle. Now that he was working it, Carol could see that it appeared to be a field full of flowers with what she was guessing was a cow lying in the middle of it. The cow—if that's what it was—had barely been touched. It was all that Daryl had left to finish so that he could call the puzzle complete.

He looked away from his bovine contemplation when the glass touched down on the table, and then he followed Carol's arm up to look at her. She smiled at him and raised her eyebrows in greeting. It seemed to be the first moment that he genuinely realized she was there.

"This mean you pregnant?" Daryl asked.

"Yes and no," Carol said. He furrowed his brow at her and Carol laughed to herself because she could imagine his confusion.

"Always thought there was just yes or there was just no," Daryl said. "Didn't realize there was a halfway there mark."

"There isn't," Carol said with a sigh. She pulled out the other chair and sat facing Daryl across the table—and across his nearly-finished puzzle. "I'm not pregnant. But—I may be fairly soon."

"You were gone a long damn time for—nothing," Daryl said. "I could've told you that much if I knew for sure you weren't pregnant to begin with."

He picked through his pile of puzzle pieces and found another piece to the animal. He placed it and Carol reached across the table to catch his hand before he could dive back in and fish for another piece of the cow. He furrowed his brow at her again.

"It's not that simple," Carol said. "I talked to the doctor. I'm going to get a little help getting pregnant."

"He got something I don't?" Daryl asked, raising his eyebrows at Carol. She laughed to herself and shook her head.

"She," Carol said.

"This is gonna be some trick, then," Daryl mused.

"Fertility treatment," Carol said. "I'm not the youngest hopeful-mother here and—it's just something that'll help out."

"Like what?" Daryl asked. "What's that mean? Ain't that like what that—what was her name? The woman had like a dozen kids at once? Ain't that what she did?"

"Yes and no," Carol responded.

"Boy, you full of clear answers today," Daryl said. "Must be something in the water. While you were gone I called about jobs? Just—mostly to see if they really would answer the phones? Got a whole lot of nothing."

"I'm not trying to be contradictory," Carol said. "Yes—the dozen babies probably came from fertility drugs, but I won't be doing anything that drastic. This will just—boost the number of eggs I release so that _one_ of them has a better chance of getting fertilized."

"Or a dozen of 'em?" Daryl asked.

"I don't know that I have a dozen to start with," Carol admitted.

Daryl shrugged.

"OK, then. You wanna do that?" Daryl asked.

Carol chewed on her lip.

"Do you want us to have a baby?" Carol asked.

"Don't put that kind of thing on me," Daryl said. "I'd like it if we do, but I can be satisfied if we don't. I told you before. If we can? Great. It doesn't happen? Mmm—just didn't happen."

"But what would you like?" Carol asked. "In this perfect world that they're designing for us? What would be the best case scenario?"

Daryl looked, suddenly, a little nervous. Maybe it was the first time that he was thinking about it all in a truly serious manner. Maybe it was just hitting him that this was their reality—as odd as it all seemed. He dropped his eyes.

"Best case scenario is they tell me what the hell the puzzle is before I get started," Daryl said. "I thought it was balloons or some shit and I was trying to fit together pieces that never woulda gone."

Carol touched his hand again. This time, she let her fingertips rest there and she gently stroked the skin near his thumb.

"Did I scare you?" She asked.

"What the hell _ain't_ scary around here?" Daryl asked.

Carol's stomach flipped. It was true. Things were about as pleasant as she could remember them being in a very long time. She knew that Daryl, too, was living in something of a fantasy. Continuing like this, even without their freedom, was a hundred times better than what they'd known in prison. But bringing a baby into the world was mildly terrifying even in a perfect world—and despite the fact that things were better for them, their world was far from perfect.

"All things ideal," Carol said. "Would you want to have a baby with me or not?"

Daryl looked at her and he nodded his head.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah—I mean. All things right? Yeah."

"I want to have a baby with you," Carol said as sincerely as she could. "And if this is how we do it? This is—just how we do it."

Daryl somewhat shrugged again.

"Then it's done," he said. "What else?"

"What else?" Carol asked.

"Your face says you made up your mind," Daryl said. "But it sure don't say you're done. So what else is on your mind besides our baker's dozen of kids?"

He cracked a smile at his own joke or Carol might have worried a little that he was serious. She popped the hand that rested under hers and he simply laughed a little more.

"There _is_ something else," she said.

"I could see that," Daryl said.

Carol sucked in a breath.

"We have to pretend I'm pregnant," Carol said. She got the original confused look from Daryl and she gave him a pass for it. She nodded at him. "I'm already telling people and you've got to play along too. Nobody can know that I'm not pregnant. We just—say that I am. _Pretend_ that I am."

"But you're not?" Daryl asked. Carol shook her head gently. "Then why the fuck would we do that?"

Carol somewhat shrugged her own shoulders.

"I don't have all the information," she said. "The doctor couldn't tell me everything. But Wave Thirty Three? Part of the program is that there's—reproduction."

"We know that," Daryl said.

"Well, apparently the government is pressuring the people that—are running this thing? They're pressuring them to say that we're on our way. That—something's happening here. I don't know all the details, but they need to know that there are going to be babies. There's—we're not just here or something. But it's early. It's soon. There just aren't pregnancies yet. So—I'm going to pretend I'm pregnant. The doctor's going to handle all the paperwork. That way? The government gets information that there are pregnancies and things are going—smoothly, I guess? And then I'm going to see her and she's going to help me _get_ pregnant. For real. It's a trade. What she needs for what I want," Carol explained.

"And all we have to do is pretend you're pregnant?" Daryl asked. Carol nodded.

"That's it," she said.

"Then why don't they just get two or three dozen people to do the same thing?" Daryl asked.

"She might," Carol said. "I don't know. I just know that we can't tell anyone that it's not real. We've got to be dedicated to it. She did say that—maybe in not so many words—that you were right. About us getting out of here? Apparently the only way out of here is..." Carol drew her finger across her throat, but Daryl got the message. "And if the project fails? If there weren't any pregnancies or whatever else happened and it all fell apart? They'll shut the whole thing down and we'll all get one last bullet as a parting gift." Daryl's eyes showed the same concern that Carol had felt when she'd listened to the doctor. "So—if she needs pregnancies? I'm as pregnant as she wants me to be."

Daryl laughed to himself—a nervous laugh this time.

"Hell, I'm feeling a little pregnant too," he said. "Sign my ass up."

"So you'll go along with it?" Carol asked.

"Is there some other choice?" Daryl asked.

Carol sucked in a breath and shook her head.

"No," she admitted. "Not if you don't want to blow our cover and risk getting some of us—or all of us—killed."

Daryl swallowed and nodded his head.

"Then I'm going along with it, but..." He said, breaking off.

"What?" Carol pressed.

"We're still gonna keep trying?" Daryl asked.

Carol laughed to herself.

"As hard as ever," she said. "Just with a little help this time. Don't worry—you're not getting worked out of this whole thing. You're still getting all the sex you can tolerate."

He cracked a smile, but he quickly erased it and shook his head.

"No," he said. "I mean—hell, I'm glad to hear it—but that wasn't what I was getting at." Carol raised her eyebrow at him to ask him, without having to actually put the words out there, what he was really thinking about. He accepted the gesture. "What happens," he asked, "if you get pregnant? Because that's what we're going for, right? What happens—if you get pregnant? And then you were supposed to be pregnant and then you really were pregnant—but they ain't the same pregnancy?"

Carol nodded her head. She understood his concern because she'd already been there herself.

"Depends on how fast this works for me," Carol said. "If it takes a while? We just say that the pregnancy didn't work out. We say I lost the baby. Then—we wait for me to really get pregnant. If it works out quickly? Before we say that? The Dr. Walker pulls something of a mea culpa with the new pregnancy and says the first one terminated but things got—mixed up somehow. That's if anybody even asks—which they probably won't. They just want it on file that people are pregnant. The details are left to someone else that she's sure won't care as long as there are _some_ pregnancies that _do_ work out. She's confident that nobody's going to care. And...it won't matter because there's a new pregnancy anyway. And the old one? The fake one? It's still on the books as a confirmed pregnancy so it—you know. It stands in as proof that things are happening here—even if they're not happening as fast as the government would maybe like."

"And we don't get busted because she fucked up and didn't notice that the first one ended before the second began?" Daryl asked.

Carol shook her head.

"Doesn't come back on us at all. It was a record mistake, that's all. Something with—fluctuating hormone levels and whatever confusion," Carol said. "And as an expectant mother with so much going on? And my doctor missed something? I might not have noticed everything in the confusion—or at least that's what I'll say. And we're very sad about what happened but so very happy about how things worked out and...you get the idea? It won't matter. Right now? The government's biggest concern is some proof of forward progress, not that everything goes off without a hitch."

"And you wanna do this too?" Daryl asked.

"I want her help," Carol said. "And I want—I would _rather_ —be on the good side of someone with authority than on their bad side. If I were to refuse? After she stuck her neck out there and told me her plan? What do you think might've happened?" Daryl nodded his understanding. "And I don't want to die," Carol added. "And I don't want anyone else to die. I think—that this might actually get us all _somewhere_. And if what they need to keep it going is me pretending to be pregnant? Then—I'm really, _really_ pregnant."

Daryl snorted.

"Congratulations, then," he said.

Carol picked up her wine glass filled with juice and gestured in the form of a toast. Daryl picked up on what she meant and followed suit. She clanked the tops of their glasses together.

"Congratulations to you, too," Carol said. "And—here's to our babies. The fake one _and_ the real one to come."

"Hear, hear," Daryl said. He tasted some of the juice, the same as Carol did, and then he cleared his throat. "As long as you're just over there growing imaginary kids, how about pull your chair around? Help me get this damn thing together."


	38. Chapter 38

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"You better have some good news for me, Al," Samirah said the moment she walked into the office, "because I've had about all the bad news I can take for at least one day."

Dr. Alice Walker had signed onto work with Wave Thirty Three at almost the very moment that Samirah let it be known that she was searching for someone to head up the medical branch of the project. Her specialized background, pre-turn, wasn't the exact match that Samirah wanted, but she'd been working in prison health for a while and seemed comfortable making herself a veritable jack of all trades. Enthusiasm, sometimes, won out over specialized skill.

She was in her mid-forties, openly had a female lover, and had been not-so-quietly suspecting that Wilds were still human since it had first been declared that they absolutely weren't. It was her belief system, more than her skill, which landed her the position. People who believed in what they were doing would naturally work harder for the project than those who didn't.

And, besides that, there hadn't been too many doctors, even out of those already working within the prison system, that wanted to sign up for something that came with so much time spent in very close proximity with Wilds. To treat them and send them out again, never really interacting, was one thing, but what Alice had to do was entirely different. It wasn't, for most doctors, a desirable role to take on.

"Do you know how to knock, Sam? It's pretty easy. You make a fist, and then you tap that on the door repeatedly until someone tells you that you can come inside," Alice said. "You don't know what I was doing in here."

"I don't care if you're hanging from the ceiling naked as long as you have good news for me," Samirah responded.

"That bad?" Alice asked.

"Well it's not good," Samirah said. "The houses in that lot? Lot E? Now we need fifteen and they need to be ready to go in two weeks tops. And that's pushing things back as far as I can," Samirah said. "Trying to get workers to come into what they consider a prison camp isn't as easy as it sounds. And we were supposed to get twenty five pairs from Overhills and Grange, but we've had to cut it back to fifteen. And I'm scared that the longer we push it, the lower that number is going to get. We _need_ that subset of prisoners. Milton put in a special request for them."

Samirah didn't hold back with Alice on most of the information she got. It often felt like the two of them were in this together—along with just a few others who were truly dedicated to Wave Thirty Three—so it didn't make sense not to lean on each other entirely with the weight of individual burdens that would be collective burdens soon enough.

"What happened?" Alice asked. "What happened to our other ten couples?"

"The ten women were..." Samirah stopped. What was the word they'd used when they'd called her from Grady? "Euthanized," she said. "I think that's what they called it." She didn't miss the slight raising of Alice's shoulders or the visible wince that came across her features. "We can only match those prisoners one for one so I called Overhills and gave them my top fifteen out of the lineup that we chose earlier."

"Did they say what happened? Sick or...?" Alice asked.

Samirah shook her head. Hoping the women had been "euthanized" for being ill might be hoping for the best case scenario.

"It's Grady," she said. "Violence broke out and..." Samirah sighed and invited herself to sit on Alice's exam table. "They're getting tired. They're all starting to feel hopeless and overwhelmed with the Wilds. Nobody cares if there are a few dozen less and everyone is assuming that extermination will take place soon anyway." Samirah gnawed at her lip. "Let's face it, Al, a lot of people are rooting for us to fail. They're rooting for the project to fail. For the government to shut us down."

"There are more people against us than just the prison system folks," Alice responded. "Every housewife that wants a couple of kids without risking the ruin of her girlish figure is hoping we somehow fail just after we become a practical baby making factory—and they're hoping for the best possible outcomes with those babies."

Samirah hummed an almost silent agreement, but there was no reason to make a big show of it. She watched the news and she heard the commentary that was made anywhere from the late-night opinion shows to the supermarket aisles.

 _Once wild, always wild._

It was just a scientific fact. Everyone knew it. You could make them more docile, maybe. Maybe you could teach them some good habits and a few manners—like teaching tricks in exchange for treats or rewards—but a wild animal was always a wild animal. There was no going back.

And the terrifying thing was that none of them knew, for sure, if that was true or not. They didn't know, either, exactly how deep they'd be in this before they were certain. All they knew was that the failure of Wave Thirty Three would result in a mass extermination of an unfathomable number of Wilds.

Samirah, like Alice and the few others that were dedicated to the project, couldn't live with herself if she knew that she didn't even _try_.

"We're going to get shut down before we even get _close_ to that if you don't tell me you've got some good news," Samirah said. "Milton's special one?"

"Andrea," Alice said. Samirah was more involved in the logistics and the business side of things. Prisoners still came to her like UPC numbers. "I know when she was ovulating and, the minute it'll show up? I'll get a blood test on her. It's the best I can do. It's the best anyone can do."

"I'm getting two calls a day now requesting a progress report," Samirah said.

"And so am I!" Alice said quickly. "But we're talking about nature and reproductive organs, not mixing concrete. Nothing is guaranteed and it takes time. They haven't even been here long enough to have ovulated twice. That's a lot of pressure. Some probably haven't even gone around once. It all depends on where they were in their cycles when they got here. If they want updates, give them updates on building progress. Give them updates on how we're sorting things out in the mess hall to be able to _feed_ everyone three times a day. Actually assign some of these citizens the jobs they've been promised and get them out of house arrest. Then give them updates on that. Man or beast, they're going to need an escape valve soon anyway. Shut up for so long? It doesn't matter if they're wild or not, they're going to start going stir crazy and trouble is going to break out."

"I know that," Samirah said, not bothering to get worked up over Alice's tone of voice or the frustration that she was releasing with her words. "I know all of that. And I want to give them updates on everything because that's what they're demanding. But what they're most interested in is whether or not we've got any progress in the field of reproduction. Most of Milton's work can't start until there are babies. And there can't be babies until there are pregnancies. They're not interested in their jobs or anything else until there's at least _something_ that says we're—working toward getting Milton's work going."

"I've got _one_ ," Alice said. "One pregnancy. And I'm hoping that—Andrea and Milton are so damn chemically compatible that it's amazing and she's going to turn up pregnant in a couple of days. But that's the best I can do. They'll start trickling in. I _know_ they will. And I'm trying to get some research going, myself, to help things along, but you've just got to pass it up the chain that these things are just going to take time and stressing everyone out about it isn't going to make it happen any faster. Holding a gun to woman's head and telling her to get pregnant isn't going to get her pregnant any faster than just letting her be."

"You've got one?" Samirah asked, hopping off the table, ignoring the rest of Alice's speech, and holding herself back from running to Alice and forcing the woman to hug her. "We've got a confirmed pregnancy?"

Alice nodded her head.

"Who?" Samirah asked.

"I don't want everyone bothering her," Alice said. "I don't want everyone making a big deal about it. They're all skittish as it is. And they have every right to be. A lot of these women had children before and, as far as they know? The government took their children and they _murdered_ them."

Samirah cringed and shook her head.

"Not murdered them," Samirah insisted.

"Let them die," Alice said. "Same difference to a mother who just found out her child is dead because of someone else's neglect. Don't you think?"

"Who's pregnant?" Samirah asked.

Alice shook her head.

"They don't need names," Alice said. "It won't matter to them anyway. Just pass on the information that we've got one confirmed and I'm absolutely confident that more are coming as soon as there's been enough time for nature to take its course."

"OK," Samirah agreed. "So they don't care about names, but I do. We need to make a big deal out of this, Al. We need to celebrate this. We need the prisoners to see that we're excited by this—that it's a good thing—and it's not at all _frightening_."

Alice almost looked nauseous. Of course, many aspects of the work that they were involved in were a little difficult to stomach.

"It's terrifying," Alice said. "The _citizens_ are terrified. And being too enthusiastic? That's going to scare them more. It's going to make them suspicious. They'll worry and—they're already worried. I get asked two dozen times a day, even when I've already promised it to the same person a dozen times, whether or not we'll take their babies away."

"Tell them we won't," Samirah said.

Alice curled her lip at her like she had said the most idiotic thing that ever a person had thought to say.

"What do you think I'm telling them, Sam? But they're not going to believe it. Not until they see it," Alice said. "So I think we just keep things nice and calm. Just—no sudden moves and no loud noises while the mothers are gestating. After a few babies are born, and everyone can sort of _observe_ what's happening and not happening? They'll start to calm down a bit. They won't be so worried."

Samirah sighed.

"OK," she ceded. "OK. We don't make a big deal about it. But—we make an announcement at least on the community channel. We let people know we're happy but we're not— _too_ happy. Something. Who, Al? Don't make me subpoena records from my own project."

"Carol," Alice said. "Carol. But—she's very nervous and I don't want—just don't do anything, Sam?"

"She's?" Samirah asked.

Alice turned to her computer and opened a document. She scrolled through it.

"8294F," Alice said. "Carol. Her partner is tag 6245. Daryl."

"Nothing big and nothing scary," Samirah said. "You have my word. Just—maybe a little something small. Something to show we care, but not that we're too enthusiastic. Does Milton know yet?"

"He's not going to care until it's born," Alice said. "You and I both know that."

"Let him know anyway," Samirah said. "And—now that we've got a confirmation? They'll want to go ahead and get things going. This puts us back on track. It puts us back in business." Samirah's stomach fluttered. With the pressure she was getting to give some kind of update, she was thrilled to know that they finally had a confirmed pregnancy. It didn't mean much—they had no guarantees—but it meant that there was hope for the project. It meant that the government would back off. They'd keep funding them. They'd help them move ahead because, even if it was slow, they were making progress and following the steps that were laid out in the plan. "They'll be calling in Margaret Greene soon," Samirah said.

"Hurricane Maggie," Alice commented.

Samirah snorted. The two of them weren't best friends and everyone knew it. It was simply that they had both worked in different sectors of prison health for a while and they had some very different approaches to things. They had some slightly differing belief systems, too.

Maggie's belief system, though, didn't come into play when it came to her involvement in Wave Thirty Three. She was government employed and that meant that she was government elected for the job. Like it or dislike it, she was coming to their community.

"Play nice," Samirah warned. "We don't have a choice in this and it's better to have her on our side than against us because of some feud where you pretend not to like one another."

"It's not a feud," Alice said. "We just genuinely don't like each other."

"Al?" Samirah pressed.

Alice threw her hands up.

"I'll play nice," Alice said. "Because I have to. But—if she mistreats my patients? I'm not going to keep my mouth shut."

Samirah sucked in a breath and spent a short moment thinking about what kind of cocktail she was going to have the moment that she was able to finally make it home.

"I know you'll never keep your mouth shut," she said as her only reply.

"Escape valve?" Alice asked.

"What?" Samirah asked, suddenly feeling tired despite the news that should have her tap dancing out of the office and through the streets of the community.

"Escape valve?" Alice repeated. "When are we going to get them jobs? Let them—breathe? Let them stretch their legs and use their muscles? Part of this project is supposed to be showing that they can contribute to society and they can safely and effectively interact socially. We can't even begin on that part of the project if everyone is locked in their houses all the time."

"Soon," Samirah said. "Maybe—I could make a couple of calls for extra guards and we could see about getting them out there to help with getting those houses up."

Alice nodded enthusiastically at that idea.

"I could use a helper or two," Alice said. "Some could help with the meals. Laundry. Delivering orders and running errands for everyone?"

"You've thought about this a lot," Samirah said with some amusement. That was another reason she liked having Alice on the project with her. While she was busy handling the bureaucracy, Alice could think of the practical things that they needed.

"That's the second most popular question I get asked," Alice said. "Right after—are you going to snatch my baby? It's are you ever going to let me out of this tiny house? And—I think that working to build their community and getting it to run even more smoothly would be perfect for all of them. There's no better way to build a community and promote community involvement than knowing you're serving your own needs at the same time as you're serving everyone else's."

"I'll make sure it gets done, Al," Samirah promised. "Just—make sure this community is busy procreating too."

Alice nodded.

"Yeah," she said. "I'm on that. Do we have a name yet?"

"Name?" Samirah asked.

"For this place? So we can just stop calling it _the community_?" Alice asked.

"I'll know by tonight," Samirah said. "And as soon as I know what got chosen? I'll let you know."

Alice laughed to herself.

"Good," she said. "Because when this thing makes the history books? Everyone's going to remember where Wave Thirty Three took place and it better have a catchy name."


	39. Chapter 39

**AN: Here we go, another chapter.**

 **I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Andrea opened her eyes without fully knowing what it was that had woken her from her sleep. She could say that it was simply the arrival of morning, her body's internal clock telling her it was time to rise, but she was getting out of the practice of waking early and naturally in quite the same way she had in the past years. She stretched gently and smiled to herself when she felt the soft brush of Michonne's lips on her face before the woman brushed back her hair.

"Breakfast just got here," Michonne said. "I heard the knock."

Andrea rolled enough to look at Michonne and groaned.

"He ordered in again," Andrea said. "I'm never, never leaving this house."

Michonne laughed in her throat.

"Well, at least we're not leaving it _together_ ," she said. "Let's get up—get some breakfast."

Andrea didn't keep track of the days here. Every day was like the one before when she wasn't able to go anywhere. They had none of the promised jobs. They had none of the promised freedom. She wasn't allowed, unlike most of the other prisoners, to leave the house for the community meals. Every day, for Andrea, was spent inside the same walls.

The only thing that was saving her from madness was the fact that, since the night she had hopefully conceived a child, Milton hadn't made Michonne leave the house.

 _Hopefully conceived_.

Andrea was hopeful that, though it was still too soon to know for sure, she was going to have a baby. She'd turned it over in her mind—and talked it out with Michonne—more than once, and now she was _hopeful_. Her anxiety was still there, but there was another little something there—a flutter that she got whenever she thought about the possibility that didn't immediately make her think the worst. At first she'd thought her feelings came from the fact that she wanted to contribute to this project that was, apparently, for the greater good, but she was slowly starting to think it was something more.

She wanted to be a mother. She always had. And though her son hadn't been born of the best circumstances, she'd loved him dearly. This baby wouldn't be him—she'd never get him back—but it could be hers. It could be her chance to be a mother again.

And Michonne was optimistic. Surely, if Andrea _wanted_ it, she was pregnant. And if she wasn't? Milton wasn't going to rest until she was so neither would they.

 _Milton_.

The days ticked by in her new home and Andrea was growing _accustomed_ to Milton. It was difficult to say that there was anything else there. He was difficult to know. He was virtually obsessed with keeping this project a secret from her until she confirmed the presence of a baby. He could make conversation, but sometimes it wasn't the kind of conversation that Andrea wanted to have.

And yet, Andrea was growing accustomed to him. In some ways, she was even growing _comfortable_ with him. She was starting to truly _trust_ him.

And, it seemed, they had a lot of time together ahead of them to grow even more accustomed to one another.

Michonne led the way into the living room, tugging Andrea by the hand, and Andrea shuffled behind her. Milton sat at the small dining table they had with a laptop, a notepad, and his breakfast. He looked at Andrea and Michonne when they came into the room, but he offered no morning greeting, so Andrea took responsibility for starting the morning exchange.

"Milton," Andrea said. "Good morning."

He nodded at her.

"You slept well?" He asked. Andrea smiled and nodded at him.

"We did," she said. "I was hoping we could go _out_ for breakfast."

"I had it brought in, Milton said.

The other two breakfasts, boxed up just as they were when they were delivered, rested on the far corner of the table.

"I can see that," Andrea confirmed. "Aren't you supposed to be working?"

"I'm working," Milton said.

"From home?" Andrea asked.

Milton looked at her like she was having trouble comprehending the simplest piece of information known to man. She laughed at herself in response and shook her head at him to indicate that she expected no actual response. Sarcasm, maybe, would be nice, but he wasn't interested in giving her some sarcastic reply. He really was working and he was, as he often was, focused on what he was doing while he wasn't eating.

Andrea took one of the boxed breakfasts, passed the other to Michonne, and headed straight for the couch. She flipped on the television and muted the sound so that the repetitive and somewhat annoying music would neither bother Milton nor grate on her nerves so early in the morning. The channel that she referred to as the "Weather Channel" was the only channel that they had, so she'd come to think of it as her favorite to watch. Michonne settled in one of the chairs near her to eat.

"Oh look," Andrea commented, reading the screen before it could change. It would come back around again, of course, but she preferred to catch the "news" the first time around. "The jobs are being assigned. We just have to _be patient_."

"Patience is my new middle name," Michonne responded.

"Milton? Are we ever actually getting jobs?" Andrea asked. "Or—is it best to stop waiting for them?"

She only had to repeat the question twice before Milton looked up from his computer screen and stared at her with a little show of annoyance on his features.

"Jobs are a vital part of the program," he said.

Andrea laughed to herself and made eye contact with Michonne who smirked. When it came to something about the "program," both of them had joked that Milton was a lot like one of those children's toys where you pulled a lever or twisted something and it gave you a pre-recorded message. There were only so many to choose from and you were likely to hear the same response over and over before you got something new. He'd memorized, clearly, a given number of lines that he could use to avoid actually saying anything at all about that which he preferred to keep secret.

"New name," Michonne said quickly, gesturing toward the television. "We got a name. Woodbury? What kind of a name is that? I put in six better than that."

"Fuck!" Andrea growled. "I put in like seventy five choices! I should've won that! Who put Woodbury in?"

"What's Woodbury?" Michonne asked.

"Was a town," Andrea said. "About an hour outside Atlanta?"

"Are we _in_ Woodbury?" Michonne asked.

"Maybe not the original one," Andrea said, "but apparently we're in the new one."

She watched the screen as she worked her way through her breakfast. Most of the news was old news. They repeated the same things all day, every day. They only added in new pieces of information when there was something new to add, which wasn't very often, and instead of adding all the "new" information on one screen, as Andrea would've done it, they included bits and pieces throughout so that you had to go looking for them like eggs at an Easter egg hunt.

"Pregnancy announcement," Michonne said, quickly pointing her finger at the screen again.

Andrea almost missed it and nearly hit her feet to get close enough to the television to easily read the text. She stared at it and then looked at Michonne to see if she'd seen it too.

"8294F?" Andrea asked.

"8294F," Michonne confirmed.

"But that's..." Andrea said, letting her words trail off because she didn't trust her own memory enough to make the assertion that they knew the tag number of the citizen mentioned—since the channel wasn't warm enough to include the fact that the Wild-turned-Woodbury-citizen had a name.

"Carol," Michonne finished for her. "That's Carol."

Most of them knew each other's tag numbers as well as they knew each other's names. They'd heard them constantly in Region Thirty Three. A tag number was, in all actuality, more unique than a name. You might know more than one Carol, but you only knew one 8294F.

"Carol's pregnant?" Andrea asked. Michonne shrugged. There was nothing else she could do. She had no more information than Andrea and all they had to go on was what the television told them. "Carol's pregnant," Andrea repeated, this time marveling over the information.

"I'm not surprised," Michonne pointed out. "They've been going at it like bunnies since we got here. If it was going to happen?"

Andrea didn't know why her stomach sank, but it did. It wasn't like there was only one pregnancy to go around the community. It wasn't like, now that someone was confirmed as being the first person pregnant in the new town of Woodbury, there would never be another—the hope was quite to the contrary—but still her stomach sort of oddly sank. She almost felt like she'd failed at something. Still, she would've liked to congratulate Carol—and Daryl too—if it was something that made them happy, but she doubted she'd ever see them to offer such a thing.

"Milton?" Andrea called, repeating his name until he finally looked up again from his screen to somewhat glare at her. She ignored his irritation at being interrupted. He needed her for something or he'd be working in his office. His choice to remain there was a clear sign that he was simply getting to the point in his work where he was going to ask something of her. When he was done, he'd retire to his office. "What does it mean? Now that someone's pregnant? Does that mean you can go on with the project?"

"Eventually," Milton said.

"Does it mean it's not really important for me to be pregnant anymore?" Andrea asked.

"Your case is particular," Milton responded, glancing back at his screen.

"Because it's your baby?" Andrea asked.

"Among other things," Milton replied. "You have to answer these questions."

Andrea sucked in a breath and put her plate on the table. She'd eaten all she wanted of the breakfast for the moment. Milton's reason for lingering in the social rooms of the house were clear now.

"About the project?" She asked. He stared at her. "Go ahead," Andrea said.

"Do you want both of us to answer them?" Michonne asked.

"You're going to your home soon," Milton said. "I've called ahead for a guard. You and T-Dog have permission to request a guard for a visit when Andrea would like. But you can't live here."

"Does that mean no to answering the questions?" Michonne asked.

Andrea shook her head at Michonne. The questions were, apparently, just for her. She'd answer them—just as she answered anything else that Milton asked of her—and hopefully soon she'd understand why it was that he had so much to ask of her.

"Questions," Andrea said, reminding Milton, in case he'd forgotten, of the questions that he was supposed to ask her.

He leaned slightly toward the screen of his computer like program he was reading from was difficult to see.

"Do you like your house?" He asked.

"Yes," Andrea said.

"Do you like your quarters?" Milton asked.

"Yes," Andrea responded.

"Do you like the community?" Milton asked.

"I don't know much about it," Andrea said. "I'm never outside of the house. But—from what I saw the maybe two times I saw it? I liked it."

"You're not outside the house often," Milton said, typing. "Do you feel isolated?" He ticked the questions off like he was reading from a list. Were the content different, Andrea might have felt like she was taking a quiz out of a magazine.

"Not as much," Andrea said. "Not now that Michonne is here."

"Michonne is going home," Milton said, not glancing up from his screen.

"Yes," Andrea corrected.

Milton nodded to himself like she'd given him the correct answer—the one that he was searching for. She had an urge to go and read the questions over his shoulder to see what was coming next. She could tell that they were prepared. He wasn't making them up as he went along. That meant that, in some way, he'd already anticipated some of what she might say.

"What does the isolation make you feel like?" Milton asked.

"Is this a psychological survey?" Michonne asked. Milton ignored her and Andrea did too, for the moment.

"It makes me feel like I want to go outside," Andrea said. "Like I want to see people. I want to do something. I want to—exercise."

"Does it make you feel violent?" Milton asked. Andrea stared at him, in silence, until he looked at her and repeated the question.

"Why did you ask me that?" Andrea asked.

"I'm asking you the questions," Milton said. "Answer them, please. Honestly."

"What if I answer them wrong?" Andrea asked.

"There are no wrong answers," Milton said.

"Are you sure about that?" Andrea asked. "If I—answer something wrong, is something going to happen to me?"

"There are no wrong answers," Milton repeated. "Answer the questions. Honestly."

"Not violent," Andrea said. "But irritated."

"Irritation has the potential to develop into violence," Milton said. Andrea wasn't certain, given the tone of his voice, if it was a question or simply a musing about irritation and violence.

"I'm not violent," Andrea responded.

"Are you pregnant?" Milton asked.

Andrea swallowed.

"If I am, it's too soon for a test to say," Andrea said.

It took Milton a moment of playing on his computer to continue. He was, apparently, searching for something. Maybe there were several possible ways the questions could go—like following a flow chart.

"Do you want to become pregnant?" Milton asked.

"Yes," Andrea responded, her stomach flipping once again as it had when she'd seen the announcement on the screen about Carol and Daryl.

"What do you believe you would do if you had a child?" Milton asked.

"Raise it?" Andrea responded, shrugging. He stared at her. "Raise it," she repeated, giving him a concrete answer.

"And if you didn't keep it? How would you feel?" Milton asked.

Andrea's stomach almost lurched to the point of making her believe she'd see her breakfast again. She swallowed it down.

" _Betrayed_ ," she responded. Milton must have heard something in her tone of voice because he looked up at her and then dropped his eyes back to the computer screen. "You said that wouldn't happen."

"Answer the questions," Milton said. "Do you believe that you would become violent?"

"Yes," Andrea said, swallowing. "I would feel—angry and betrayed and I would become violent. You said that wouldn't happen." When Milton didn't answer her, Andrea felt herself getting stirred up. "Milton? You said that wouldn't happen. Will it happen or not?"

"Questions are questions," Milton responded. "They are meant to be answered. Thought about. Talked about. Answered."

"Why are you asking me these questions?" Andrea asked.

"I can't tell you," Milton said. "Not yet."

"Right—I've got a question for you, Milton. If I'm pregnant," Andrea said, "are you or anyone else going to take my baby?"

"It's not part of the project," Milton said. "That's all I can tell you right now."

Andrea stood up. She walked toward the table and she didn't miss the fact that Milton backed away from her, leaning deeper into his chair, as she approached him, despite the fact that there was still a wooden table between them.

"Then I've answered all the questions I can answer for you right now," Andrea said. "Until you can tell me something? There's nothing else that I can tell you, Milton."

"You'll have to answer the questions," Milton said. "Today and numerous other times. I'm going to ask you the questions. Other people are going to ask you the same questions and more of them. You have to answer the questions. That's part of the project."

"Then explain it to me," Andrea begged. "Explain it to me and I'll answer questions for you all day long, Milton. I'll answer anything that you want me to answer. Ten times a day if that's what you want. But—explain it to me! Tell me why you want to know these things. Tell me why you're asking me this. And I'll answer it!"

"I can't," Milton replied, not surprising Andrea with the repetition of his Magic Eight Ball commentary. "Not yet."


	40. Chapter 40

**AN: Here we go, another chapter.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

It took a few days before people started to figure out that the announced pregnancy on their news channel was Carol. However, once they figured it out, the amount of people who had stopped to congratulate Carol and Daryl during their regular trips to eat was staggering. People that Carol had never seen before in her life were congratulating her. Guards, servers in the dining hall, and people who worked jobs she couldn't even identify were dropping by their table or stopping them in the street to offer some word of congratulations—and almost _praise_ —for the baby.

It was a little overwhelming, but the worst part of it was that Carol—and Daryl, too, but it didn't seem to bother him—knew that it wasn't true. They knew that, behind the scenes, they were focusing their attention on Dr. Walker and her plan to try to help them conceive. To everyone's face, though, they were the first couple that were proving that they could make the move toward "family building".

And Carol didn't miss that some of the women that congratulated her had a certain bite to their voice and a certain expression that crossed their features. Their mouths said congratulations, but their body language and tone said something else.

She couldn't give the secret away, though. Dr. Walker had already had her back in her office. She'd already promised her that she'd been approved to get everything she might need to help Carol and that she had a plan to start with the simplest options first. She'd already examined Carol, again, and told her that it shouldn't be as challenging as she might think—it was entirely possible. Dr. Walker had told her, as well, that thanks to having her "confirmation" of pregnancy, the government wasn't harassing them, at least for a while, about funding.

Carol had to keep the secret, but the doctor assured her that she didn't have to keep it for long. Soon they'd say that it was all so unfortunate, but things just didn't work out, and then it hopefully wouldn't take long before Carol and Daryl had real news to announce—news that merited the congratulations to which they were already becoming accustomed.

"She said two weeks," Carol said, calling to Daryl across the little house as she toweled her hair dry. She'd already dressed after her shower, but her hair was still holding a good bit of water. "Maybe a little longer. It depends on when I'm ready to ovulate."

"Maybe I just don't know a damned thing about any of this," Daryl responded. "Hell, maybe I don't _want_ to know that much, but ain't it the ovulating thing that we're waiting on anyway?"

He appeared in the doorway behind Carol. He still hadn't bothered to put a shirt on after his own after-breakfast shower. She smiled at him in the mirror.

"That _is_ what we're waiting on," Carol said.

"So if you're gonna do it anyway then—I guess I don't understand what the stuff you're gonna take is for," Daryl said.

"Better odds," Carol said. "Do you want to know this? All of it? All the gory details?"

"Gimme the clean, cliff-notes version," Daryl responded, crossing his arms across his chest.

"I'm going to ovulate and all of this? It's going to make my body _want_ to get pregnant. Like—more than it normally would," Carol said. "And it's going to make me have more eggs. More eggs means a better chance that one of them...you know..."

"Takes," Daryl offered. Carol nodded at him. "So what we're doing right now? It don't got a chance of working?"

Carol shook her head.

"No eggs available right now means no baby," Carol said. "Plain and simple. I can't get pregnant just any day of the week—or month. So right now? We're just practicing for the real thing."

Daryl laughed to himself. He shook his head.

"I had no idea that this shit was so damned complicated," he said. "Every time I turned around? When I was younger? Back—before all this? My brother seemed to knock up every woman he touched—or at least get a scare that he did. He was always running around and trying to clean up messes that he might've made. I started to just figure that it was like a constant thing. Never thought that I'd actually be _trying_ to do what the hell he's probably done on accident a dozen times and never get it to take."

Carol sucked in a breath and dropped the towel over the side of the sink to hang there. They'd come around soon for laundry and the towel would go right into the bag—there wasn't any need to worry with whether or not it would dry properly. She turned around and faced Daryl instead of looking at his reflection in the mirror. She touched her fingertips to his chest and watched as his muscles jumped at her touch.

He still flinched when she touched him. He flinched until the touch wasn't new again.

"It's mostly me," Carol said. "It's not that I can't get pregnant. I've got everything I need and it's all still working, it's just not working as well as it was, let's say, twenty years ago."

Daryl laughed and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into him.

"What the hell is?" He asked, barely raising his voice enough to make the words heard. "I like the practice, though."

Carol turned her face enough to kiss his chest.

"Me too," she said.

She closed her eyes and rested her face against him. She was afraid to admit that she felt like there was something there—something that grew a little more each day—that she'd never planned to feel for anyone again, and certainly not for Daryl. She felt it, too, coming from him. For all their promises of "being in this together" and for all their insistence that they were talking about the unpredictable and mysterious project that had now become their lives, there was something else there that they weren't talking about quite as openly.

 _Not yet._

They might have gone back to bed. They might have worked on a puzzle or taken turns reading to each other from one of the books that Carol had requested. They could've spent the day watching the news channel over and over and narrating for one another old television shows that they'd once seen.

But someone knocked on the door and interrupted them. As soon as the loud knock—a sound that startled both of them—sounded through the house, they broke apart.

"Too early for delivery," Daryl said.

"Maybe it's laundry," Carol responded.

But when the knock sounded again, they didn't hear the announcement for laundry or a delivery. Instead, they heard a man announce that he was there about jobs. Both of them nearly fell over each other trying to get to the door first. By the time the man unlocked the door and opened it, they were both standing ready to greet him.

The young man was probably twenty years old. Carol couldn't imagine that he was much older than that. He was sunburned and he had dirty blonde hair with a tan line that suggested he'd been wearing a hat of some kind for most of his outside employment—a hat that he wasn't wearing at the moment. He didn't try to enter the house. He simply stood on the porch, just at the door, with two guards waiting in the street with three other men that were clearly inmates.

"Grady Hammond," the young man said.

"That your name?" Daryl asked. He got a nod. "Daryl," Daryl offered, not bothering with a last name. "This is Carol."

Carol was surprised when the young man offered them both a hand to shake.

"I'm working construction on the new lots that we're putting in," Grady said. "You might've noticed them. We're looking for hands. People who can work construction are preferred, but we've got jobs for anybody. Gotta get fifteen houses up and a dividing fence."

"You asking or telling?" Daryl asked.

"Do you want the work or not?" Grady asked. "That's what I'm asking. You don't have to take it, but it's there if you want it. Standard pay. Same as everything else."

"What do we need to get paid for if they give us everything?" Daryl asked.

"This place is headed for independence one day, right? Prison camp turned regular neighborhood?" Grady asked, his voice prompting Daryl and Carol to respond to him. They simply nodded their heads. That was their understanding of the whole thing—whether or not it was true remained to be seen. Grady shrugged. "You save up the pay because the government won't be footing your bills forever. You want the work or not?"

"We want it," Daryl said quickly, not even looking at Carol before he answered him. She wouldn't have told him otherwise, though. They'd been waiting on jobs and they weren't turning anything down. There was no telling when the offer might come around again.

"Get dressed," Grady said. "I'll wait. We'll give you work clothes to change into, but you probably want to wear more than _that_ heading down there."

Carol started to turn to go with Daryl, in search of her shoes, but Grady called her back with a gentle "Ma'am" that surprised her as much as his earlier handshake. She turned back to look at him while Daryl went to get a shirt and his boots. Grady shook his head at her.

"You can't go down with me," Grady said.

"I want a job," Carol said. "I can't—do much construction. But I can clean up? Bring water? I learn pretty quickly."

Grady shook his head at her again.

"White flower," he said. Carol cocked an eyebrow at him.

"What?" She asked.

"White flower," he said, he waved her out of the house. She watched the guards to see if they'd stop her, but neither of them seemed the slightest bit interested in her. In the street they just stood there, glancing around and waiting. Carol leaned out of the house enough to see what Grady was gesturing toward. On the doorframe of her house, and Carol was almost certain it hadn't been there this morning, there was a white flower that had been put there. Whether it was drawn or painted or simply attached like a sticker, Carol couldn't tell. "White flower means that the lady of the house is pregnant. I can't take no woman to do construction that's got a white flower on the door. They'll find you something, I'm sure, but it won't be with me."

Carol slipped back into the house. Her expression must have given away her disappointment because Daryl, scuffling his feet because he hadn't tied his boots yet, stopped to tie them beside her and asked her what was wrong.

"I can't work," Carol said. "Not with you. Because—of the baby."

Daryl snorted.

"You should've known that," Daryl said. "You tell him or just everybody knows now?"

"White flower," Grady repeated.

"The hell?" Daryl asked. He straightened up, his laces knotted enough to keep his boots on as they went gathering up more workers.

Grady gestured for him to come out and he showed him the same thing he'd shown Carol.

"White flower," Grady repeated. "Means the lady in the house is pregnant. Means she don't work with me."

Daryl hummed and studied the drawing. He looked at Carol.

"Cherokee Rose," he said. "Not the best done one I've seen, but a Cherokee Rose. You stay here. Better anyway. Hot and a construction site can get dangerous."

Grady nodded his agreement to that and stepped out of the way enough to let Daryl step entirely onto the porch to their little house.

"Congratulations, by the way," Grady said. "To both of you."

"Can I ask you something?" Carol asked. "Before you go?"

Grady looked at her and gestured to himself like he wasn't certain if she had a question for him or for Daryl. She nodded her head at him and he mirrored the gesture to give her permission to address him.

"It's just, you don't seem uncomfortable with us," Carol said. "At all—why is that?"

"Why am I gonna be uncomfortable with you?" Grady asked. "You trying to do something I should know about?"

Daryl chuckled at that.

"If you didn't get the memo, every one of us is _wild_ ," Daryl said. "Tamed, but wild."

Grady laughed at that. He shrugged.

"I guess—I just don't believe in it, that's all," he said.

"Don't believe in being wild?" Carol asked. He shook his head.

"My parents were captured as wild," Grady said. He shrugged again. "I was with them. If I'd have been older—I guess I'd've gone to prison too. But I didn't. Got a foster family. Told me my parents were Wilds and they weren't fit to raise me. Told me—that they were gonna keep me from being wild. I didn't remember my parents being no different the last time I saw them than...the first time I saw one of the Dead walking around. So—either they weren't wild or we all are." He looked over his shoulder toward the street where the guards still looked as bored as they had when Carol had watched them before. They weren't paying them any attention. They were hardly paying attention to the inmates, all of which looked equally as bored, that were likely in their care. "But—don't tell them that," Grady said. He winked at Carol. She smiled at him and nodded.

"Wouldn't dream of it," she said. "But I think—you're a bright young man."

He beamed a little at that.

"Congratulations again, ma'am," he said. He gestured with his head. "But you gotta get back inside so I can lock the door. I'm sure they'll be around with something you can do soon."

Carol nodded her understanding and her thanks and started to step back into the house. Daryl barked out a quick "wait," though, and interrupted her retreat. He leaned into the door long enough to peck her lips and Carol felt her cheeks burn warm at a kiss—no matter how small—with an audience. Grady, too, had pink cheeks when she glanced at him again. But Daryl, if he was embarrassed, showed no signs of it. Instead, he turned and hopped down the porch steps as he called a greeting to one of the inmates that he'd apparently met before.

Carol slipped back inside the house and pulled the door closed. She stood at the door and waited until she heard the click of the lock—and then she settled down on the couch to read her book until Daryl returned or, if she was lucky, someone came to offer her a job that was suitable for a woman with a Cherokee Rose on her doorframe.


	41. Chapter 41

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Daryl might have been gone an hour or he might have been gone three. Time was a construct and Carol hadn't had much of a reason to count its individual increments for some time. Meals marked the passing time in the same way as sleep marked the change of days.

Whether she'd been reading an hour or three, she'd covered a fair amount of ground in her book and was deeply engrossed in the story when there was a knock at the door that sucked her out of the fictional land and back into the reality of her tiny home. She didn't move off the couch until the second set of rapid knocks finally made her go stand in front of the door to wait for whoever was outside to let themselves into her home.

It could be someone coming with a job for her. If it were simply Daryl coming back, there wouldn't have been a knock or an announcement. The door would have simply been opened and Daryl would have been let back inside the house.

There was one more set of three quick knocks and the lock disengaged. Carol stepped back as the door opened and revealed that the head woman over the project, Samirah, was standing there, just outside, and was holding a large basket. Dr. Walker stood a short distance behind her. Samirah smiled at Carol just as soon as the door had cleared her field of vision and Carol looked to Dr. Walker who also offered her a smile, even if it was a slightly nervous one.

"Carol?" Samirah asked. Carol nodded, even though she was certain that they must know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, which inmates were locked in which houses. "Can we come in?" Samirah asked, nodding to Carol as though she were trying to suggest to her what the right answer was—as though Carol had a choice in the matter. Dr. Walker nodded too and Carol backed away from the door to allow the women a wide space in which to enter the living room.

Samirah went directly to the small table and put the basket down on the edge of it where the beginning parts of a puzzle that Carol and Daryl had started weren't taking over the surface. She glanced around the house.

"I haven't been inside one of these yet," Samirah said. "I saw them while they were being built, but I haven't actually been inside them."

"Do you want the grand tour?" Carol asked. From her spot she could point to everything in her house, so that's what she did. "Around there—that's the kitchen. That's the bedroom over there and the bathroom. That room is—well, it's empty. And this? This is our living room."

Samirah followed her indications with her eyes and then she smiled at Carol again.

"It's nice," Samirah said. "Do you like it?"

"It's much nicer than a prison cell," Carol said. "Or even our bunks. We're comfortable in it."

"Good," Samirah said. "Good. We're—hoping to offer more in the future. Bigger houses. Better ones. Especially if the project does as well as we're hoping. This is only the beginning."

"Freedom, right?" Carol said, her stomach dropping just a little at the mention of the word. That's what they were supposed to be getting out of this—freedom. All they had to do was be patient. They had to be patient and they had to play by the rules. They were doing that to the best of their abilities. Samirah nodded at her.

"Time, more than anything," Samirah said. "But—I wanted to come by and see you. I wanted to congratulate you, personally, on the baby. I brought you a few things."

She gestured toward the basket and, not to be impolite, Carol walked over to examine the contents of it. It was basic baby supplies. Cloth diapers, pacifiers, a few bottles and blankets. It was like an introductory gift basket to having a child.

"Thank you," Carol said. She glanced at Dr. Walker who was about halfway through consuming one of her fingernails. Carol assumed she was worried that Carol was going to give away their little _secret_. Carol couldn't communicate to her that she had absolutely no intention of doing that. She didn't know what the repercussions might be for the doctor, but she certainly didn't want to find out what they might be for her as an inmate. "It's very nice. But—it's also a little _early_."

Samirah joined Carol by the table.

"It may be a little early," she said. "But I honestly didn't know what else to give you as something of a congratulatory gift. If there's anything you want or need, you just let me know. I'll make sure you get it if I can. We'll be getting you nursery furniture soon. A crib, changing table, dresser. But, like with everything else, you can make any special requests that you have and we'll do our best to fill them."

Carol nodded at her and thanked her quietly again. She sincerely hated lying to the woman. She hated lying to most of the people around here. She didn't think that Samirah was cruel or that she was even a bad person. Since the first time that Carol had heard her speak, she believed that the woman believed in what she was doing. She wanted freedom for all of them. And, like them, she had to play by the rules to get it, even if her advantage was that she knew a little bit more about the rules than the inmates actually did.

"Really, the only thing that I can think of that I want is a job," Carol said. "Something to—give me a purpose. If I had something that I could do to contribute? I just think—it would make me feel like I was actually helping out here. As it is? I'm just eating food and taking resources and I'm not really giving anything back."

"You're helping us keep going," Samirah said. "But—we're here to talk to you about a job, too."

"That's right," Dr. Walker interjected quickly and with enough enthusiasm that the sound of her voice actually made Carol jump. It had been a few days since anything was barked loudly in her direction and Carol was settling into the quieter tones surrounding her. "We want to offer you a job. Working with me. You'd be a sort of secretary to start off with—until everyone was certain that the requirement of needing an escort could be lifted—and then you'd also run errands for me. There are a lot of people here to keep track of and I'm certain that, within a few months, this place is going to be growing a lot. I could use a hand."

"We thought you might like the position," Samirah said. "And it's one that we can offer you that's more baby friendly. We're establishing a line of jobs that are a little lower impact for our expecting mothers and Alice—Dr. Walker—thought that you might enjoy working with her since she can use the extra hands."

"There's also built in skill training for the future," Dr. Walker offered. She nodded at Carol, the same way both of them had done at the door, as though she were trying to demonstrate for her the correct response.

There would be no way, if it were an option—though Carol wasn't actually sure that she had any choice in anything—that Carol would turn down the job. It was the first thing she'd been offered since she'd arrived and, if she turned it down, she had no way of knowing when she'd be given something else or what her new job might entail. The position, as well, would put her in close proximity to the doctor with whom she already felt a certain connection given their involvement in the baby related plans that nobody besides Daryl even knew about. Carol enthusiastically nodded her acceptance of their offer.

"Yeah," she said. "Absolutely! I can start whenever you're ready. Now, if you want. Daryl went with the construction crew and—I'm really just here. Sitting around, reading a book. I could start typing things or filing things or whatever it is that you need me to do."

The women exchanged glances, but Carol thought that they were both simply pleased that she'd accepted. If there was any hidden meaning behind their glances, they were experts at keeping it hidden.

"Tomorrow," Dr. Walker said. "In the morning. I'll send a guard around when I get here and you can start then. Today we're still handling a few things and I don't have everything ready for you."

Carol nodded her acceptance.

"I really do want to congratulate you," Samirah repeated. "I know—I understand—that it's something of a leap of faith to have a child here."

Carol nodded at that as well.

Samirah looked genuinely happy. But more than happy, she looked relieved. That's what Dr. Walker had suggested, in some words, would happen when Carol told her that she could make the false announcement. They would get something that they needed to keep the government from putting pressure on the project. Her pregnancy—even if it didn't really exist—was something like an insurance policy that the project would go on.

"I know that I've asked Dr. Walker this," Carol said, taking a chance that she could speak freely to Samirah at the moment, "but I want to ask you too. There's no trick to this, is there? I mean if I—when I have a baby? It's mine and Daryl's? Free and clear?"

Samirah exchanged a glance with Dr. Walker that made Carol more uncomfortable than the previous exchange had. Then she renewed her smile and nodded at Carol.

"If everything goes as planned? It's your baby," Samirah said.

"And that's the part that makes me nervous," Carol interjected quickly. "The 'if' part."

"All Sam means to say," Dr. Walker offered, "is that we have to have certain clauses in effect. If any parent should turn...violent? For the safety of the children, we have to remove them from the danger."

Carol's stomach turned and she shook her head at her.

"What makes you believe that any of us would harm our own children?" Carol asked. "A lot of us lost our children. Before we ever got here. But it wasn't us who hurt them and it wasn't us who— _killed_ them."

The women exchanged a glance again. Dr. Walker nodded, but Samirah responded by shaking her head. It seemed that whatever her decision was—and more than likely it was the decision over whether or not Carol could expect some kind of direct and honest answer—it was the decision that won out.

"Carol," Samirah said, dropping her words off for a second at Carol's name and shaking her head in her direction. She stepped toward Carol, hand out, but Carol backed away from her enough to indicate that she didn't particularly want to be touched. Samirah accepted by dropping her hand and ending the attempt to catch Carol's shoulder. "It's nothing that you have to worry about. As you said, you're not violent. You weren't violent toward your child before. There's no reason to suspect that will change and so there's no reason for you to worry."

 _There was no reason to worry._

They could tell Carol, until they were all blue in the face, that there was no reason to worry, but without some kind of concrete answer as to what might happen, why it might happen, or even why they believed it was possible, Carol was going to worry. They were all going to worry.

But she didn't argue and she didn't press the woman any further. Tomorrow morning she would start working with Dr. Walker—the woman who had nodded her quick decision to tell Carol more than Samirah was allowing—and she felt that Dr. Walker was more interested in being open about what she knew if it might be something that helped move things along. Left to work with her, Carol was confident that she could get something out of the woman. She could get some of the answers that she wanted. She could get the answers that she _needed_.

For the time being, she plastered on her best smile, despite the fact that she wasn't feeling any emotion that might stir it up, and she nodded at Samirah.

"I understand," Carol said. "I guess I'm just..." She broke off. She was just reasonable. She was just remembering her daughter. She was just a mother that had lost her child to the government once. A mother that was hoping to become a mother again, even if it meant that she might have to work for it. She was just a mother that everyone else thought was already in the process of becoming a mother again. "I'm just a little emotional," Carol said. "A little hormonal, maybe. I just—want to be _sure_."

The same look of relief that Samirah had worn earlier came back over her features and she smiled again and nodded.

"I understand that, too," Samirah said. "You have nothing to worry about. I _promise_. You and everyone else here? You're in the best hands you can be in."

"Let me show you the—nursery?" Carol offered, deciding to try to make peace and re-cement her position as entirely on board with everything that was happening around her. "Maybe we could talk, for just a moment, about—what I'd like in there?"


	42. Chapter 42

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Andrea had called for a guard to bring Michonne to the house only to get a call back a few minutes later informing her that Michonne had a job and wasn't in her home.

Michonne had a job. Milton was gone to work. T-Dog, without a doubt, had a job as well. As far as Andrea knew, everyone had a job and everyone had some sort of purpose. All she had was the quiet of her home and the news channel that mocked her by saying that anyone who wasn't currently employed need only be patient. Their time was coming.

Andrea's time wasn't coming.

She could forgive Milton the fact that he rarely engaged in conversation with her or that he wouldn't allow her in many of the rooms in the house that she called home. She could forgive him his preoccupation with her uterus and the fact that, even though she wasn't even certain she was pregnant yet, he kept insisting that she remember that he needed her to produce at least two children—both had to come from their union. Nobody else could be substituted. She could forgive him, honestly, of just about anything, because he wasn't a bad man, but she couldn't forgive him for the solitary confinement that she was now forced to accept as her life.

Milton had left her "homework" to do. That was supposed to give her something to occupy her mind. It was a questionnaire but there was nothing there that she hadn't answered a dozen times. She was asked, sometimes three or four times a day, to answer the same questions. Over and over they were asked to her. Now they were staring at her from a printed and stapled pile of papers. She was starting to wonder if it was some kind of test to see how often her answers would change or, maybe, it was simply to see how long it took to desensitize her to certain questions that struck a nerve with her.

 _"How was she feeling?"_

 _"Was she pregnant?"_

 _"Did she want to become pregnant?"_

 _"How did she think she would feel upon learning that she was pregnant?"_

 _"What would she do when the child was born? How would she raise the child?"_

 _"How would she feel and react if she were told that she would not raise the child?"_

 _"Had she ever felt violent toward authority? When and why?"_

The words changed but the questions never did. Her responses changed, but not by much. There was some method to this, Andrea was sure of it, but she wasn't able to figure out exactly what that method might be. She couldn't figure out the angle that was being worked. She and Michonne had both worked in law prior to the turn, and both of them had decoded difficult documents from time to time, but they weren't trained investigators and they weren't quite able to crack the code of what was happening here.

They needed more to go on. They needed more information. Andrea just didn't want to find out that information, and find that she didn't care for it in the slightest, once her child was outside of her body and up for grabs by anyone that could overpower her. She didn't want to find it out, either, as she drew her last breath in front of an executioner.

 _If she could figure it out beforehand, she could do something. She didn't know what she could do, but she could do something._

Andrea was scratching out her answers with the pencil that Milton had left on the stack when there was a knock at the door. She put the stack down on the coffee table nearest the sofa and crossed their living room to stand in front of the door. It was far too early for lunch to come and she was certain it wasn't the guard bringing Michonne. Her heart fluttered a little at the thought that it might be a job for her—and maybe she'd judged Milton entirely too harshly in regard to that—but she tried to hold back her excitement over the possibility.

Another knock.

"Andrea?" The voice called from outside. Andrea couldn't identify the voice, but it didn't matter anyway. Asking if she was there was simply a courtesy. Whoever was out there would have a key and could gain access at any time they wanted.

"Come in," Andrea said. She backed up as the door opened and put her back against the small wall that created the entrance hallway. It made her look as unthreatening as she possibly could and she wasn't in the mood to deal with any nervous Nellies if it was a guard.

The doctor stood in front of her. Dr. Walker. Andrea had been introduced to her a couple of times. She was carrying something that looked like a tackle box and she smiled at Andrea.

"House call," Dr. Walker said. "I just came to play vampire and rob you of some of your blood. Is that OK? Can I—come in?"

Andrea nodded at her. She had no choice in anything, so acceptance was all she had to offer to anyone's requests.

The doctor stepped inside and closed the door behind her. Andrea noticed that she didn't take the time to reengage the lock, with her key, from inside the door. She was trusting Andrea not to make a run for it—which she could've easily done, though she'd probably have just been shot down in the street for such a stunt. Still, whether her attempted escape would have been foolish or not, the doctor was trusting Andrea not to try anything.

She gestured toward the table.

"You want to do it here?" She asked. "If you're squeamish, you can lie down. It's all the same to me. Whatever makes you comfortable."

Andrea shook her head and went to sit at the table. She watched as the doctor went through all the normal motions of getting gloves and everything else that she needed to draw the blood.

"I'd hoped I could go to your office," Andrea said. "Get out of the house? Maybe—see the sunlight? I don't see anything without a pane of glass in between."

"Well—I tell you what," the doctor responded, drawing her words out as she concentrated on what she was doing. "I'll have the results of this pretty quickly. And if it comes back positive? In a couple of hours I'll have you down there at my office. In fact, I'm going to be keeping such a close watch on you that you're probably going to get tired of traipsing back and forth to my office."

Andrea put her hand over her face and rested her elbow on the back of her chair. She knew perfectly well what the blood test was for, but it still made her feel a little overwhelmed to think about it. The doctor stopped what she was doing, ready to begin, and called Andrea's name quietly to get her attention. Andrea hummed at her to let her know that he was hearing her, but she didn't change her position.

"Woozy? Did you want to lie down?" The doctor asked. "It's OK with me if you don't like needles. We can do this however you're more comfortable."

Andrea laughed to herself.

"I don't like them," she said. "But—if you had any idea of the things that have been done to me? It's not that that's making me woozy—so if we can just get it done?"

The doctor hummed her acceptance of Andrea's explanation and finished what she had to do. She didn't speak to Andrea to distract her or to ask if she was alright until she was instructing her to keep the cotton wedged in the crook of her arm for a few minutes. Andrea looked at her, then, while she went about packing up her things.

"Do you have some juice or something?" Dr. Walker asked. "Anything you want me to get you? A glass of water?" Andrea shook her head. "Are you OK? You're looking a little pale and—I happen to be the best person around here to talk to about that sort of thing about if you're not feeling OK."

Andrea wondered if the woman only cared because it was her job to care or if she _actually_ cared. It wasn't that easy to tell these days.

"I'm not sick," Andrea said. "I'm—I think I'm pregnant. But I guess I'm going to find out for sure."

The doctor pulled the other chair from the table around and sat right in front of Andrea. Their knees were practically touching and Andrea looked at the small distance between them. The doctor touched Andrea's leg with her hand and when Andrea didn't move away, she rested her hand there.

"I'm going to let you know as soon as I find out, OK?" Dr. Walker said. "I will come back here and I'll tell you. One way or another. And if it's positive? I'll take you to my office and—then? I'll take you to lunch. We'll go by the warehouse? Maybe see if there are a few things you'd like to get to start making things feel comfortable? Let you start—nesting? A little?"

"If it's not positive?" Andrea asked.

The doctor glanced around the room.

"Then I'll take you to lunch anyway," she said. "I can't do it often. OK? It's part of your role here that you—well, that I don't even understand. But it's part of your role that Milton will let us know when it's time to give you the wider freedom that everyone else is getting. It'll come, but it's not coming until it's right for the project. You have a very, very specific role. And we've got to follow those rules."

"What do you understand about it?" Andrea asked. "Can you tell me that? Can you tell me _anything_? Because—I woke up sick today and yesterday and I don't know if it's because I'm pregnant or because I'm scared of _being_ pregnant. My son? Was just a baby. He wasn't even crawling. When we got to safe places? Places I could put him down? He was just starting to push up a little and rock like he might crawl soon. We were sure that he'd start crawling soon."

Andrea stopped and swallowed, focusing on not choking on the lump in her throat. She shook her head at the woman.

"He was so good," Andrea said. "So _good_. Like he knew he had to be quiet. But the last thing I remember about him? Was him _screaming_ and _crying_. And now? I can't even remember, for sure, if it was him that I could hear or if it was me that was screaming and crying."

Dr. Walker's face showed that she wasn't entirely unfeeling about Andrea's situation. She nodded her head at Andrea and, this time, moved her hand from Andrea's knee to catch her hand. Andrea let her have it. She let her hold it. At the moment it felt good to simply have the woman that she barely knew holding her hand.

"I can't do that again," Andrea said. "I can't lose another one. They'll have to kill me this time."

Dr. Walker nodded her head.

"How about—we don't let anybody die? OK? How about—we just let everybody live?" Dr. Walker offered. Andrea shook her head at the woman and the doctor audibly sucked in a breath. "What if I tell you—all the ways that you _could_ lose your baby? All the ways that this _could_ happen? And then you know them—and you know what _you_ won't let happen?"

Andrea nodded at her. She didn't trust her voice at the moment, so she simply nodded. Knowing anything was better than knowing nothing at all. And this was the first time that anyone was offering to tell her anything _right now_ instead of telling her that she had to wait. The doctor mimicked her nod and licked her lips. She took a moment before she started.

"You'll lose your baby if you push it away," Dr. Walker said. "If you—push it out of the nest? Reject it? We'll take the baby to raise it correctly." Andrea didn't interrupt her. She could tell her that this was something she wasn't going to do, but that wasn't necessary. The doctor wasn't accusing her. She was creating a list. "If you threaten the baby or try to harm it? We'll take the baby away. If you should become violent? And you harm anyone or become a threat? You'll be put under arrest or...detained. You'll be removed from the community, and we'll take the baby. Of course, there are natural ways that the pregnancy could terminate, but I'm going to do everything I can to ensure against that. Still—nature could always take the baby away."

"I understand that," Andrea said quickly. "I'm not worried about accidents. Not _real_ ones. I mean—I don't want them to happen. I don't want anything to happen but...I can understand _why_ they happen."

Dr. Walker nodded at her again.

"If the baby is born with any— _mutations_? If it's—something dangerous? If it's not well? Then we'll have to handle the situation," Dr. Walker said.

"Why would it...what would it...?" Andrea stopped. She found that she couldn't even formulate the question that she wanted to ask but, apparently, the doctor could read her mind because she squeezed Andrea's hand and shook her head at her as she leaned forward.

"It's not something you need to worry about," Dr. Walker said. "But—you said you wanted to know the reasons we have in place to remove the children from their parental units. I'm giving you the list. If the child is, somehow, a danger to the community? The child has to be removed. But it's not something that you need to worry about. OK?"

Andrea nodded and swallowed, this time against the feeling of wanting to run for the bathroom. A few more swallows and she felt that she had it somewhat under control.

"What else?" She asked.

Dr. Walker shook her head.

"That's it," she said. "There's nothing more that I know about."

"So if the baby lives and is healthy," Andrea said, "then I just have to—not reject it or hurt it, not be violent, and follow the rules. Don't get arrested. And everything's fine? It's mine?"

Dr. Walker nodded again.

"It's yours," she said. "You just have to—be a good mother and a...good citizen. You have to cooperate with the project so that we can keep everything moving forward." She squeezed Andrea's hand again. She offered her something of a soft smile. "And you have to play nice with Mr. Mamet because—he's going to save you all. He's going to get you freedom. _Real_ freedom. You and your babies included—because I know he's said there's at least going to be two of them over time. OK?" Andrea nodded and focused on her breathing for a moment. She didn't want to admit that she wasn't in control of her emotions at all. "You OK?" Andrea nodded again, still not daring to open her mouth to speak. She had full intention to try to get the woman out of the door without having to speak to her so that she could lose control in the privacy of her solitary little home. "Are you going to be fine if I leave you here? To go get this test going?" Andrea nodded again. Dr. Walker smiled at her. "Good," she said. "Save up your appetite. We'll go to lunch. I promise."


	43. Chapter 43

**AN: Here we are, another chapter here.**

 **I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Carol thanked the guard that let her into her house and stood by the door until she heard the lock engage again. She remained there a moment, staring at the lock that she couldn't see move with her eyes. She only changed her position when she heard Daryl's voice.

"You're kinda late," he said.

Carol hadn't realized he was sitting on the couch, in his underwear, watching the news channel with a beer in hand. He'd showered already.

It was her first day at work. She'd been given the job of organizing files in alphabetical order. One file per prisoner. Some of them were thick, some were thin. She hadn't looked inside any of them, despite her desire to see what might be in there, because she feared the presence of video surveillance even when Dr. Walker wasn't in the office. She would've finished the task in one day if it hadn't been for the fact that the filing cabinets she was brought to work with had come full of the relics of the realty business they'd apparently belonged to pre-turn and she'd had to empty them and carry all their contents out to a pickup truck outside that would haul the trash off. The simple back and forth—especially given that she had to take small loads to give the indication that she wasn't carrying anything "too heavy"—had eaten up more time than she might have imagined.

She'd also been given breaks to rest and a break for lunch, which she'd eaten with Daryl, and that had gobbled up any remaining time she had. The rest of the filing would simply wait until tomorrow.

She had planned to talk to the doctor and pick her brain on what she knew and what she might be willing to share with Carol, but that hadn't been possible. Today had been a very busy day and Dr. Walker had hardly been available to Carol at all.

Andrea was pregnant. And it wasn't the faux pregnancy announcement like Carol's had been. She was actually pregnant—though only just barely—and there was much to be done.

The announcement would be made public when Andrea had cleared it for announcement—when she'd told Milton in case he needed to know before everyone else—and then Carol could announce the end of her pregnancy whenever she was comfortable and ready. They didn't need her lie any longer. Andrea's pregnancy would be enough to keep the government at bay.

It had all been a lie, so Carol wasn't sure why she should feel the way she did.

"Did I tell you Andrea's pregnant?" Carol asked. She couldn't have told him because she hadn't found out until after lunch. "Has it come up on the channel?"

Daryl looked at her and shook his head. He picked up the beer bottle from the table and took a small swallow of it. The beer that they brewed now had an odd flavor that was a little reminiscent of potpourri, so he never drank it too quickly or in too great a quantity.

"Haven't seen anything, but it's good, right? That's what she was supposed to do?" Daryl asked.

"It's apparently what all of us are supposed to do," Carol said. She crossed over, finally, to the couch and when Daryl moved over to give her room, she ignored his offer of a couch cushion. Instead, she moved to sit on his lap and he allowed it by holding his arms to the side to let her get situated before he wrapped them around her. "It means we can tell them this whole thing has ended. I'm not pregnant anymore. Just one of those things. Whenever we're ready."

"That's a good thing too," Daryl said. "Hell—I got people congratulating me at work and, sometimes? Their congratulations don't sound too sincere. Sounds like they're pissed that they weren't there first or something. I won some kind of race I didn't even know I was running."

Carol looked at him and ran her fingers through his hair. It was shaggy and growing shaggier by the day. She was sure that, in all of Woodbury—which was what they were now calling their fine community—there had to be a barber. If not, she'd put in the request, herself, for some scissors to trim it so that it didn't fall in his eyes so much or cover his ears entirely.

"Is it a good thing?" Carol asked.

"Ain't it? You don't think it is?" Daryl asked.

Carol shrugged.

"I think the not lying anymore is a good thing," Carol said. "It'll be a relief to just—say something happened and take a couple days off work and then be free from the lie. But—I have to admit, I didn't know that I was going to feel kind of— _sad_."

"Sad that you aren't pregnant when you knew you weren't pregnant?" Daryl asked with a chuckle. Maybe it was different for men. Carol wasn't going to hold it against him that he didn't understand her feelings when, in reality, she wasn't sure that she understood them. They were, after all, entirely irrational.

She simply nodded at him.

"Yeah," she said. "I guess that's it. I'm sad that what I knew wasn't real, isn't real."

His expression changed and, for just a moment, Carol wondered if Daryl did understand. Or, if he didn't, maybe he was simply _trying_ to understand.

"Doesn't mean anything," Daryl said. "We knew we were still going to try, right? We're still gonna try? With that doctor woman's help?" Carol nodded and Daryl shrugged his shoulders. "Then that's it. Fake one's done. Time for the real thing."

"Tell her tomorrow?" Carol asked.

"Whenever you're ready," Daryl said.

"I'm probably going to get sent home from work," Carol said. "I don't know—they might come for you too."

"And we gotta spend the day together?" Daryl asked, raising his eyebrow at Carol. She shrugged gently, but nodded her head too.

"We might," she said. "I don't know how they feel about us and mourning. But they might think we need the time."

Daryl laughed to himself.

"Then I guess we'll figure out how the hell to spend it," Daryl said. He smiled at Carol and squeezed her tighter than he probably intended. "You OK?" He asked.

"I'm OK," Carol said. "Actually—maybe I'm still a little sad? But I kind of like the possibility of where this is going. You know? We've got jobs now. You work construction and I'm a medical secretary."

"We sound pretty important," Daryl said. "Sounds better than what I been called before. Inmate 6245. Wild Tagged 43."

Carol nodded and smiled at him. She kissed his lips softly and pulled away.

"We've got jobs and soon? We might even have a real announcement to make," Carol said. Daryl came back for another kiss, his always hungrier than hers, and she allowed it, ignoring entirely as he shifted her around on his lap.

"Real important," Daryl said.

Carol hummed at him and cleared her throat. She knew where this was headed. She could _feel_ , in more ways than one, where this was headed. She rested her face against his.

"Don't get too comfortable," Carol said. "You need to get dressed. They're coming for dinner any minute."

"Always ruining the damn party," Daryl said, no real bite to his voice.

"That's OK," Carol said. "We'll just pick up where we left off. When we get back."

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"You told me that you would tell me when I was pregnant!" Andrea yelled at Milton.

"Is that volume absolutely necessary?" Milton asked.

She'd managed to trap him in the chair again, though she feared that he would eventually get rid of the item of furniture simply because she _could_ trap him in it.

"I'm pregnant," Andrea said. "You saw it in black and white. A note from Dr. Walker. I'm pregnant. And you told me that I would get to know what the hell is going on here as soon as I told you that. I'm all in. I can't get any farther _in_ , Milton. This is _your_ baby and it's _inside_ my _body_. That's about as far into this as I can get. So, yes, this volume is _necessary_ if you don't tell me what the hell is going on!"

Milton shook his head at her.

"Andrea, I want to tell you everything," Milton said.

"Then start talking," Andrea said. "We've got all night and you've made it so that I have nothing to do and nowhere to go. I've got all the time in the world."

"The nature of the project depends on you not knowing the specifics," Milton said. "Not until it's the right time. Eventually you'll know everything, but I can't tell you everything right now. Even if I wanted to, it would—destroy the foundation of the project. I would have to begin again. You'd have to be removed from the community. I'd have to choose someone else. The whole thing would have to start again. All of this would be a waste."

Andrea's stomach flipped. If she removed from the community, for any reason, then she'd lose the baby. They'd take it from her. If they didn't kill her immediately, and returned her instead to Region Thirty Three, she'd be one of those prisoners that was tied down in the clinic to give birth and was never allowed to even see the child that she'd given life to. She shook her head at Milton and backed off of him, struggling for a moment to control the tears that wanted to fall out of pure frustration more than anything else.

"What _can_ you tell me?" Andrea asked. "Milton? What can you tell me so that I can sleep at night? Because—I'm going crazy here!"

Milton sat forward, noticing he was being given a little of his freedom back when Andrea backed away. His expression changed too. He cleared his throat.

"I need my notebook," he said.

"What?!" Andrea asked.

"My notebook," Milton said. "I need my notebook."

Andrea reminded herself that not cooperating with Milton could be as much a ticket out of the community as killing him might be. She went to the table and collected the notebook that he carried with him everywhere he went. The one that he jotted notes down in constantly. She didn't wait for him to ask her for his pen, either. Instead, she picked both up and took them to him where he remained sitting in the chair despite the fact he could have bolted for his freedom by now. He opened the notebook and took the pen in hand. Andrea noticed that his hand was shaking slightly.

"Are you going to say something?" Andrea asked.

"How do you feel?" Milton asked. "Knowing that you're pregnant?"

Andrea growled to herself and went to sit in one of the other chairs. She rested her face in her hand.

"I don't know," Andrea said. Milton stared at her, like he always did, to wait for a better answer. "I don't know, Milton," Andrea repeated. "I don't. Right now? I don't know how I feel. So you can just write that down or you can move on to the next question."

"How do you feel knowing that—I'm the biological parent of the child?" Milton asked.

Andrea shook her head at him.

"Next question," she demanded. He stared at her and she sighed. "Look, I know these are coming back around two or three dozen times. I might have a better answer for you tomorrow, but right now? I don't have an answer and I don't feel like I can even think about it."

"How do you feel about raising the child?" Milton asked.

"Next. Question," Andrea said. This time Milton didn't wait for her to respond. Apparently he was accepting her answer that _he_ would have to be the one that waited this time.

"How would you feel if you weren't allowed to raise the child?" Milton asked.

"Next fucking question," Andrea growled at him, moving her face and drawing her hands up into fists to try to control her feelings. The bite of her fingernails in her palms actually helped to calm her a little.

Milton stared at her then, long enough that she wondered if she'd have to prompt him to move on. When she locked her eyes on him, though, returning the stare, he broke eye contact with her and stared at the notebook.

"You said you were going crazy," Milton said. "Why do you feel that way?"

Andrea's wall broke, then, but only a little. She heard her own sobs of frustration escape just before she was able to get it back under control.

"I can't leave this house," Andrea said. "I _rarely_ leave this house. Everyone else is out there doing things. They're talking to each other. And I'm just stuck in this house. The walls are closing in on me, Milton. I can't _breathe_. I'm breathing but—it doesn't feel like I am."

"The solitude makes you feel crazy?" Milton asked.

Andrea nodded.

"Do you believe that you'd feel less crazy if you felt less isolated?" Milton asked.

Andrea nodded at him again.

"Yes!" She said. "That's—what I've been saying. It's—do you even listen to me? When you're writing this shit down in your notebook? Do you even hear me, Milton?"

If he heard her, he didn't respond. At least, he said nothing. He did scribble some things down in the notebook. He didn't look at her when he spoke again.

"Does it make you feel violent? Toward me or anyone else?" Milton asked.

Andrea closed her eyes.

"If you ask me that question again, it might," Andrea said. She held her breath and let it out slowly, trying to control the way that she was feeling. The doctor had taken her to lunch. She'd taken her to a warehouse where the doctor had requested some things for the baby. Andrea had been given a bag of items that she didn't pick out—items she hadn't even been through yet because she was saving the experience for when she really needed _something_ —and it had felt like a _vacation_.

"Answer the question, Andrea," Milton said. "You feel crazy. Does it make you feel violent? Like you want to hurt someone?"

Andrea growled to herself, realizing that she wasn't going to get out of answering the question or anything else.

"If I didn't think it would cost me my baby?" Andrea offered. "I could probably kill someone just to get out of this house."

She looked at Milton. She expected him to look terrified, but actually he looked somewhat pleased with her response as he wrote it down in the notebook. He swallowed a few times, studying his words like they might be changing before his eyes, and then he glanced back at her before dropping his eyes once more to the paper.

"It would cost you the baby," Milton said blankly. "So I would advise against violence of any sort." He swallowed audibly. "If I were trying to be entirely accurate to the experiment, you would be restricted to your room. Your only contact with anyone would be contact with me, with the guard who brought your meals, and with your health care provider during home visits. Nobody would be allowed to speak to you except for me." Milton shook his head. "I'm not trying to be entirely accurate. Just accurate enough to have reliable results. You're allowed free reign of the house except for my quarters. You're allowed visitors—and I'm willing to add more to the list as long as you don't abuse the privilege—and you're allowed to go outside of the house, under supervision, on some occasions. All I can tell you, right now, is that your isolation is not accidental and—it's not because...of _me_. It's part of your role within the project. Nothing you experience here is meant to hurt you long-term or arbitrarily, even if it might be unpleasant. You're supposed to take comfort in that. If I were being entirely accurate to the experiment, you wouldn't know that any suffering you endure is only temporary."

Milton got up from the chair, then, notebook and pen still in hand and started to walk in the direction of the staircase.

"Milton? Where are you going?" Andrea asked.

He stopped walking, but he didn't look at her.

"I have to record your answers and my observations," Milton said. "While I can be assured that they're accurate."

Andrea realized he wasn't going to tell her any more at the moment—and she still had to digest what he had said—so she wasn't going to press.

"Goodnight, Milton," Andrea said. "Congratulations."

"Congratulations?" Milton asked, still standing there, rather rigidly, with his back to her. Andrea laughed to herself because it was the only thing that she could do at the moment.

"Yeah," she said. "You're—you're going to be a father. So—congratulations."

He didn't respond. He somewhat nodded to himself and then he picked up his steps again and walked up the stairs, presumably to his office. Andrea told herself goodnight, then, and left the chair to take herself to bed.


	44. Chapter 44

**AN: Another chapter here. Small time jump that's explained in detail in the chapter. There will be several time jumps, but I'll warn you about all of them in case you don't pick up on them in the chapter.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Daryl saw T-Dog working near him and he placed himself in the same job, unloading supplies from the back of pickup trucks. T-Dog looked at him, for a fraction of a second, like he had no idea who he was and then he smiled and dropped a bag to clap him on the shoulder. Daryl returned the gesture. They saw each other, from time to time, but there was no telling how often they'd be in the same area of the construction zone. It had been a little while since Daryl had laid eyes on him.

"Need help unloading?" Daryl asked.

"Need a break," T-Dog admitted. "They should be coming around with water soon."

Daryl glanced around at the hustle and bustle of the area. They hadn't had much trouble finding people that wanted to work construction. Daryl imagined that anyone would take whatever they were given. The houses they were building were going up and they were going up fast. They had a deadline that was quickly approaching and he was certain that they were going to have no trouble reaching it. He felt like he could practically blink and open his eyes to find that another house was standing. He didn't know much about building things, but he could carry anything they needed him to carry, he could dig, and he could hammer. He was also pretty damn good at following directions and he was quick to learn.

"That is one hell of a fence," Daryl said, gesturing toward the chain link fence that was going up around the area even as they were working. It was every bit as high as the ones at Region Thirty Three and he'd already seen the rolls of barbed wire that would be fitted to the top of it as extra insurance that nobody would get the idea to climb it. If it was electric, too, Daryl wouldn't be surprised.

T-Dog hummed his agreement to Daryl's assessment of the monstrosity.

"Damn sure is," T-Dog said. "Right in the middle of our fine community."

The fence wasn't right in the middle of the community—it was more off to the side and back, in Daryl's opinion—but he understood what T-Dog meant. It was a bit of an eyesore and, frankly, it made him wonder what in the world they needed it for around this particular cluster of houses.

"What the hell you reckon they're trying to keep in these houses?" Daryl asked.

"Maybe it's not that," T-Dog said. "Maybe it's what they're trying to keep us out of. You thought about that?"

Daryl considered it a moment. He supposed it was just as possible as his assumptions on the matter. After all, they were all inmates. Every one of them was considered to be dangerous and unpredictable. It was made clear by the fact that there were, at this very moment, fifteen guards that they'd brought in just to watch them while they worked—it didn't seem to matter that he wasn't aware of a single person there having stepped out of line at all.

"What the hell you think they gonna put in these houses that we're gonna want so damn bad?" Daryl asked.

T-Dog laughed and shook his head.

"I don't know, man," he said. "Not much that I do know these days. Just help me unload this truck before Big Red over there comes to start bitching at us for taking too much of a break." Daryl glanced toward one of the officers that was looking in their direction. He watched them as they went back to working, and Daryl kept an eye on him over his shoulder, but as soon as they were clearly moving again he focused his attention elsewhere. "I didn't say it before," T-Dog said, "so I'm going to say it now. Sorry to hear about your—ya know. Your kid."

Daryl was struck by the statement and it took him a moment to remember how he was supposed to react. It had been almost two weeks since he and Carol had told everyone that they'd lost the baby that had never really existed. He was starting to forget about it entirely. In the first few days they'd gotten some condolences from people, and they'd pretended to be pretty solemn about the whole thing, but the fuss had died down now.

"Yeah," Daryl said. "Thanks. But—we're doin' alright. You know? Just—trying again."

T-Dog hummed and grunted under the weight of his load as they reached the truck again to load up once more.

"You got real dedication to this project," T-Dog said. "Trying again already. You're a real MVP for the cause."

Daryl hummed at him, but he stopped a moment in moving toward the "drop off" point. He hadn't really thought about it until just now. Something about T-Dog's words, or maybe just the way that they were delivered, struck Daryl.

He wasn't sure if they really were that dedicated to the project or not. Everyone expected chit-chat about babies to be related to the project—they heard it constantly—but Daryl wasn't certain that was what was really going. He and Carol, when they talked about the baby they hoped to have, rarely ever talked about the project at all. They just talked about the baby.

And now that Daryl was thinking about it, he wasn't sure that the project really registered that much for him when he thought about them actually having a baby. It was what got them started, maybe, but when he imagined it actually happening? He didn't think about getting some kind of congratulations from the community for their effort and hard work.

He just thought about having a kid with Carol.

He didn't know what that meant, exactly, but he knew that, without any explanation at all, his breathing had just kicked up a notch and his stomach had an odd sort of rolling sensation.

"You alright?" T-Dog asked, catching Daryl's attention again. Daryl hummed at him. "Hey—you alright? You don't look OK. I'm gonna wave Big Red down. You look like you could use some water. Go sit in the shade a minute. These trucks'll get unloaded."

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"Alright, Mama," Alice said. "Let's get you set and then I've got to get a couple of things done."

Carol leaned against the exam table and waited for the injection that she knew she was going to get. She was used to it by now. She'd been doing this for a while and all she could do was hope that it was going to pay off. So far she hadn't noticed any real reaction to the injections besides the fact that she had discovered that she could go from perfectly fine to crying without a single bit of provocation at all. She'd actually found herself crying without realizing that she was doing it—and she was almost positive that it had happened without her having any reason at all to be upset.

"I checked the calendar while I was in there," Alice said, going about preparing everything. "So—starting the day after tomorrow? You let Daryl know that there's no action in the love shack. Not between the two of you and no solo acts either."

Carol hummed at her.

"He won't like it," Carol said with a laugh. "He hasn't been restricted at all since we got here."

The sting of the medicine didn't even phase her this time. The first day she'd wondered if this was going to be something she could really be dedicated to doing, but by now? It was just a regular part of her routine. Alice rubbed circles over the spot, massaging the liquid into her muscle, when she was done.

"Well, he's on restriction soon," Alice said.

Carol sucked in a breath.

"And then?" Carol asked.

"I give you the trigger shot," Alice said. "And we load the basket up with eggs. He comes in with you and makes his contribution. He can stay with you or he can leave—I'll leave that up to you two. And then? I'll put his little guys right where they need to be. Take the guess work out for them so they don't get lost or anything."

"It's so romantic," Carol teased.

Her time working with the doctor was doing very little to reveal a great deal of classified information about the Wave Thirty Three project. The woman didn't seem to know that much about it, beyond what her role in the project was as a health care provider, but every now and again she gave Carol some nugget of information. More than anything, Carol was starting to develop a friendship with her, to the point that the doctor now insisted that Carol call her Alice and Carol couldn't imagine going back to the way it was before. There was, between them, a comfortable back and forth and she thought the familiarity might end up being worth a great deal.

If nothing else, the familiarity would make it easier, eventually, to find out anything that she might want to know. Girlfriends, after all, told each other everything.

"It's pretty romantic," Alice said. "Especially if you'd seen the earliest plans for this place. Originally? Before the whole project was fully developed? It was literally going to be set up like breeding pens. It was horrifying. All of them in a row. Just like a—farm or something."

Carol's stomach turned.

"Why'd they change it?" Carol asked. "Not that I wish they hadn't or anything..."

"You can't very well prove that people are human if you aren't going to treat them like they're human," Alice said. "Can you? It was worse than the current prison system, really. And that's not what Wave Thirty Three was supposed to be about. So—they did some work. They made changes. Milton Mamet volunteered to take on the project as his pet project and, when he did, he hired some people who were interested in the way that it was done—not just the outcome."

Carol swallowed. Free from the "procedure," she walked around the small office in which she worked doing very basic tasks when she wasn't out carrying things from one location to another. She was one of the few inmates allowed to roam about without escort.

"What's the outcome, Alice?" Carol asked. "The hoped for outcome?"

"Freedom," Alice said. "You know that. Everybody does. Freedom for all of you."

"And the babies?" Carol asked.

Alice shrugged gently.

"Freedom for them too," she said.

"They're born into freedom," Carol said. "Or—as close to it as we can come."

"Captivity doesn't only take place within physical structures," Alice said. "Freedom. From the prisons. From the camps. From the stigma. That's the outcome. At least it's the one that we're working toward."

Carol nodded her head. She could tell, any time she pressed Alice, when she'd gotten about as much information as she was going to get. She was learning to read the woman's face and there was a certain look that Alice got when she closed down and locked up for the time being.

The one thing that Carol was certain of, even if parts of the project still made her uneasy, was that Alice believed it was a good thing—and she was in it for the right reasons.

"I guess it's not _that_ unromantic," Carol said. "Even if we do the— _thing_ —here? At least we go back to our house, right? I'm not in some bitch pen somewhere."

"You can go right back to your house," Alice said. "You can do the whole romantic thing there. As much as you want. We'll never know, one way or another, when it really happened. You still get the good stuff."

"And if it doesn't work?" Carol asked.

"Then we keep trying," Alice said. "I've got several possibilities up my sleeve before I throw in the towel. You'll learn that I don't give up easily. But don't worry about it. It's going to work. Right now? Focus on relaxing. Get Daryl satisfied enough he can make it through about a week. This'll work out."

"What do you need me to do?" Carol asked. "While you're gone?"

"Pull files for the list on the table," Alice said. "Just stack them up. I'll get them when I get back. And—not much else, really. Read a book or something? Just remember to answer the phone if it rings."

Carol nodded.

"That I can do," she said. "Another pregnancy?"

Alice shook her head and walked around the office packing items into the small bag that she carried around with her when she went to make house calls.

"Trouble in the mansion on the hill," Alice said with a laugh. "From what I was told, Andrea has a really wicked case of morning sickness and, well, Milton needs personal reassurance that she isn't actually dying. Because that would be tragic—on a lot of levels."

Carol might have been uncomfortable with the statement, but she heard the teasing in Alice's voice so she laughed too.

"Good luck," Carol said, escorting the doctor to the door of the office.

"Morning sickness I can handle," Alice said. "Besides—I need the practice. It's gonna be you next. Hold down the fort."


	45. Chapter 45

**AN: Here we go, another chapter.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Michonne knew that something was up when she was pulled off of her work duty by a guard. That knowledge was even more concrete, in her mind, when she saw that another guard had pulled T-Dog off his job. She was good at maintaining her composure—and she always had been—on the outside, but inside she was tied up in knots over what it might mean.

 _What had they done? What were they in trouble for? What had happened? Was some kind of punishment coming because she hadn't even had a single pregnancy "scare" since their arrival?_

Her brain ticked off about a hundred possibilities in the short amount of time that it took them, both walking in silence and trying not to look at one another, to cross part of the community to the spot where the guards were taking them. Once they got there, meeting under some of the few trees that were still growing in the area that had mostly been cleared to build Woodbury, Michonne could see that Dr. Walker was standing and waiting, her arms crossed across her chest.

"I'll take it from here, guys," she said to the guards. "Thanks for your help."

"Alone?" One of the guards asked.

"I think I can handle it," Dr. Walker said. "I've got my radio. Things get out of hand? I'll call someone."

"We'll stay close by," the same guard said, looking at Michonne like he was threatening her with his eyes. "You just yell if you need help. We'll hear you."

Dr. Walker accepted the man's offer with some frustration. She seemed agitated and Michonne wasn't certain if her demeanor was in response to the guards or something else entirely. The guards left and walked out of sight, though Michonne wasn't sure exactly how far they went, and she looked to the doctor for some kind of explanation.

"OK," Dr. Walker said, looking back and forth between T-Dog and Michonne, "I need some truth here. What do I need to know about Andrea? Because I know you two are the only two on the visitation list and I know that Milton...well...he'd do _anything_ he had to do for this project."

Michonne looked at T-Dog and he stared at her, head tipped slightly to the side, and scratched at the back of his neck. He looked guilty of something, that much was sure, but there wasn't any way of knowing what, exactly, he was guilty of. Michonne looked at the doctor.

"Nobody wants to get in trouble here," Michonne said.

"And nobody will," Dr. Walker assured her. "I'm not here to get anybody in trouble. I'm here to fix things. This project means a lot to me. And whether or not you know it, it's a case of life or death for all of you. So what do I need to know to make things easier on me?"

"What's hard on you?" Michonne challenged. "And maybe we can fix it."

The doctor narrowed her eyes at Michonne, but the corners of her mouth turned up.

"You were together?" She asked. "Out there? Before you were taken to Region Thirty Three?"

Michonne nodded.

"Together, together? Or just travelling through?" Dr. Walker asked.

"As together as we could be," Michonne said.

Dr. Walker nodded her head.

"The baby?" Dr. Walker is asked.

"Which one?" Michonne asked.

Dr. Walker stared at her. She dropped her eyes, a moment, toward the ground but they didn't stay there. She brought them back up to meet Michonne's eyes again.

"I'd like to know what happened out there," Dr. Walker admitted. "But—I'm not going to dig into that. The past is the past. _This_ baby—what do I need to know? How did it get here? How are you involved—both of you—if you are?"

Michonne looked at T-Dog, but he was trying very hard to pretend that he wasn't part of the conversation at all. Despite the look of guilt painted all over his features, he seemed to think that he might get out of this without confessing that he had anything to do with anything. Michonne licked her lips and considered the woman in front her.

"The baby is Milton's, of course," Michonne said. "He just had a little help making it happen."

Dr. Walker nodded her head. She looked at T-Dog then.

"And you?" She asked. "What's your—role? In all of this?"

T-Dog looked at Michonne. He narrowed his eyes at her and furrowed his brow. He took on, for just a second, the appearance of a brooding toddler.

"Unfortunate bystander," T-Dog said. "Overly-compassionate and unfortunate bystander. I wasn't going to let Michonne get stuck with just anyone when they split her and Andrea."

"Better someone sympathetic," Dr. Walker said. T-Dog nodded at her. "But you're not trying to get pregnant?" She asked, redirecting her attention to Michonne.

"Haven't ovulated yet," Michonne said. "At least not according to your tests. The plan was simple. When I was ovulating? We'd go back, together, and we'd do it again. Andrea would have Milton's baby. I'd have T-Dog's. But having a baby doesn't have to mean..." She shrugged her shoulders to finish and Dr. Walker nodded and waved her hand at her.

"Yeah...yeah...resourceful and clever," Dr. Walker said. "And—in my opinion? Absolutely _not_ against the rules. We don't care who is in a relationship with who. Not really. Not more than society has—has ever cared. But for the project? We have to have confirmed pregnancies."

"And that's what you're getting," Michonne said.

Dr. Walker nodded her head.

"But we need _successful_ ones too," Dr. Walker said. "So—walk with me. Both of you. And give me a little insight into Andrea. Has she ever seemed _unstable_ before?"

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Michonne was nearly going crazy to get to Andrea. She could talk to her. She could rationalize with her. She could handle this—whatever it was—if only they'd _let_ her handle it. But before she could get in there and make all the promises that she needed to make, and before she could soothe everything over, they had to get Milton to sign off on things. And, while Michonne might have thought that simply bullying him into what she wanted was best, the rational side of her recognized that Dr. Walker's approach of talking it over with him was clearly going to work more in their favor.

"You asked me to tell you when it went too far," Dr. Walker said to the man. "You told me you wanted my opinion and you needed my input. I'm telling you that you have to pull back. It's gone too far."

"I'm following the model that I have and it's too early," Milton said. "It's not the right time."

"It's the _only_ time," Dr. Walker said. "I don't know the model. I never saw it and I didn't read—the same things you did. I read the book. I heard a couple of the speeches. But I never read the full model. You know that. But from what I read? I can give you what you need to know. The solitary confinement will drive her to madness if it hasn't already. And it's _not_ necessary. Not anymore. We know what it'll do. You can go in there right now and see—what it's doing. We can draw any number of assumptions from that—sound ones. We don't have to see it play out."

"There are no weapons in the house," Milton said blankly. "I removed all of them."

"Really?" Dr. Walker responded. "Because I can count three just from where I'm standing."

Michonne glanced around the room. Weapons. Sometimes people didn't understand that there were weapons and there were _weapons_. If she had to kill someone? She could count at least twenty things that she could use to do it—and that was without turning her head.

"If I may?" Michonne said, feeling her stomach churn even at taking the chance to speak up. She got the attention, though, of both Milton and Dr. Walker and neither one reproached her. "Andrea isn't violent. She never has been. Out there? She was a hell of a partner when it came to dealing with the Dead. But people?" Michonne shook her head. "A lot of things would've gone differently for both of us if she'd been stronger against people. She doesn't want to hurt _anyone_. Not even if they absolutely deserve it."

Dr. Walker nodded.

"And there you have it," Dr. Walker said. "That's a pretty strong piece of information. How many people did she kill, Michonne? That you know of?"

"She took the rap for me," Michonne said. "When a guard was killed during our capture? She took the blame for it. But it was me who killed him. I've never seen her kill someone who wasn't one of the Dead or as good as dead. She'd kill out of compassion—but that was always different."

"Don't change it entirely," Dr. Walker said, turning her attention back to Milton. "Take the data you've got so far and change it a _little_. Let Michonne move in here. T-Dog if he wants to or we can work that out. Andrea will still be alone when everyone's at work, but it isn't _absolute_ solitude." Milton looked uncomfortable with her suggestion. It was clear that he didn't like it. He didn't like the implications of it, maybe, but Michonne wasn't sure the exact source of his discomfort. "She kills herself," Dr. Walker added, "and we lose _so much_. Possibly _everything_. We have to start again—and that's only if it gets approved."

The last bit of nudging seemed to do it and Milton finally nodded, even though he didn't look exactly gleeful about the change.

"I don't have a choice," he said.

"No," Dr. Walker said, "you don't. Because if she wants to find a way? She'll find it."

"I know," Milton responded. "Believe me—I know."

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"I'm going to make this really simple for you," Dr. Walker said. "We're going to get you up and you're going to—sit on the porch and enjoy the breeze. OK? Get some of that fresh air you've been wanting. And we're going to get you some fluids and something to eat."

Milton had held out on her. He'd held out on all of them, from what Michonne could tell. He thought it was, possibly, a normal effect of pregnancy. Maybe it was a normal part of morning sickness. He'd assumed that it would pass and Andrea's threats were nothing more than a toddler style tantrum. But, from the quick and mostly hidden glance that she got before she was pushed away entirely, Andrea looked worse than Michonne had seen her look in a long time—and she'd seen her at some pretty low points. Sick from the pregnancy, miserable from everything else, and possibly terrified of the outcome of everything, she'd decided that starvation and thirst were her best way out of it all and she was almost two days into the process of demonstrating that she had enough willpower to let it happen.

"Leave me alone," she said from her position wedged between the toilet and the bathtub.

Dr. Walker laughed ironically.

"This hardheadedness is great," Dr. Walker said. "This strength? It's _great_ —but use your powers for good and not for evil. Think of your baby and let's get you out of here."

"I'll take him with me," Andrea responded. "This way? I'll take him with me."

Michonne paced a short circle around the floor. She was being forced to wait out of sight. Dr. Walker was trying to negotiate with Andrea first—to see if she could get her to come around on her own. As far as Michonne knew, Andrea hadn't noticed her and wasn't aware of her presence. Michonne would wait on the doctor to let her in there because the woman told her to wait, but she was losing her patience.

"Listen—you won't _win_ this," Dr. Walker said. "Not this way. Because if I have to? I'll have you restrained and sedated. I'll have a feeding tube inserted into your body in less than fifteen minutes and you'll lose complete control of _everything_ until the baby's born. Then? They're going to rule that you're unfit because of this. That's the hard way. That's not how I want this to go down. The easy way? You let me help you. I'll report this as nothing more than a severe case of morning sickness that accidentally resulted in dehydration and malnutrition for a couple of days. It got away from you. Things get away from us. We get you healthy. We make sure the baby's healthy. You _and_ Michonne keep your baby."

"Mich?" Andrea asked.

Michonne heard her name and nearly plowed into the doctor. She apologized when she bumped the woman, trying to look into the bathroom door that was blocked by the doctor's body and Milton's.

"Surprise?" Dr. Walker offered. "Milton's agreed to let her stay here. To move in with you. Everything else stays the same, but she can stay."

"Mich?" Andrea repeated.

Dr. Walker moved to let Michonne in and Michonne crawled quickly into the bathtub and got her arms around Andrea from that direction since it was the easiest way to reach her.

"You don't get to do this," Michonne said, cradling Andrea as best she could in the tight space. "You don't get to take the easy way out and leave me here. So—get up or I'll get you up. I've gotten your ass out of the dirt too many times to let you die next to a toilet."

Andrea laughed at her. It was a weak laugh, but it sounded better than her voice had even when she'd been arguing with the doctor.

"It could be a trick, Mich," Andrea said. "You told me—you can't trust anyone."

"You can trust me," Dr. Walker said quickly. "You can trust me and you can trust Milton. You _have_ to trust us."

Michonne knew what they were saying were true. Whether or not they wanted to trust them? They had to. There was no other choice—unless it was choosing to take some horrible way out like Andrea was willing to try if she had to.

"I'm here," Michonne said. "And they're going to let me stay. For good. And we're going to work this out. And—I trust them."

She looked at the doctor. She narrowed her eyes at her. She tried, with everything inside her, to transfer the message to her that she was thinking—she would tell Andrea that she trusted her, and she _would_ trust her, but if she made her regret that? She'd take the bullet they had to offer her just to make sure she took as many of them out as was possible before they killed her. She would do it for Andrea—if she had to. She'd do it to get some kind of revenge.

Maybe the doctor understood, or maybe she was confirming what Michonne had actually said, because she nodded her head at her.

"We've got a lot to do," Dr. Walker said. "Because I've got to get you taken care of and T-Dog and Michonne have to go and get her things. Can I help you?"

Andrea looked at Michonne and Michonne forced a smile and nodded at her. Andrea offered a soft but sincere smile back and made the first moves to get out the position that must have been at least a little bit painful. Dr. Walker quickly held a hand out to her.

"Don't get up," she said quickly. "You'll probably just black out and I don't want to add possible concussion to my list. Stay down. I'll get T-Dog for backup and we'll get you."

Michonne waited until the doctor had scrambled out of the room and she looked at Andrea, still keeping her hands on her.

"You were really going to do this?" Michonne asked. "Just—let me get the news off the fucking weather channel?"

"I'd have told you in person," Andrea said. "But I didn't think I was going to see you again. I've sent for you—two dozen times. But—you never came. I thought Milton lied. Nobody was ever coming back here. I didn't think they'd ever let you come again."

Michonne swallowed and nodded. She rested her face against Andrea's head.

"I'm here now," she said. "And I'm not leaving." She sucked in a breath when she felt Andrea's fingers find her arm and touch it gently. "But if you ever try this again? With me here?"

"I won't," Andrea said quickly, cutting off Michonne's threat before she could even think of what it might actually be. "I promise. We'll do it together."


	46. Chapter 46

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Carol's heart was thundering in her chest and she couldn't have explained it any way other than to say that she was simply nervous. She was nervous that what she wanted to happen wouldn't happen, and she was nervous that it would. Daryl finally came back into the little room and handed off his cup to Alice. Then he walked over to Carol and she extended a hand to him. He moved to take it, but she yanked it back just before he was able to.

"Did you wash your hands?" She asked. She smirked at him when his cheeks turned slightly pink and he looked toward the doctor.

"Of course I washed my damn hands," he said. "Besides—ain't like you ain't...touched it before." Carol laughed to herself and let him take her hand then. He seemed as nervous as she felt and it made her a little more comfortable. At least she wasn't alone. He was usually pretty collected, so she was glad to see that he was at least a little shook up by everything. "This is about the most uncomfortable I can remember being in a while," Daryl commented. "And—I gotta say I've been through some shit."

Carol hummed at him.

"When you're naked from the waist down and you've been spread eagle on a table for half an hour? We'll talk about uncomfortable," Carol said. She didn't miss Alice laughing as she prepared everything.

"You're both almost out of here," Alice said. "And if it makes you feel any better? It's not always a hundred percent comfortable for your doctor." She got herself situated and commanded that Carol relax—something much easier said than done—so that they could get this over with and get them on their way to go home and have a much more pleasant evening. "This is going to be a little cold," Alice said.

"Is this going to hurt?" Carol asked. "Just—tell me. So I can prepare."

"What are your feelings on pap smears?" Alice asked. "Do they hurt?"

"Not the most comfortable thing in the world," Carol said, trying not to look at Daryl and, instead, to focus on the ceiling.

"I'd say hold onto that," Alice said. "It's about the same idea. Only difference is I can't use lubrication because we don't want anything affecting the outcome. Now—once I get started? There's going to be a little cramping. And that could go on for a couple of days. OK? Cramping some spotting—that's normal."

While it wasn't a lie—and it certainly wasn't the most comfortable thing that Carol had ever done—she'd over-prepared because it wasn't the most _uncomfortable_ thing she'd ever done either. She'd prepared for it to take, too, a much longer amount of time than it actually ended up taking. She'd barely even realized that Daryl was rubbing her fingers in his hand—and started to focus on that sensation more than anything else—before Alice told her that it was done and she could put her feet down if she wanted.

"That's it?" Carol asked Alice.

"There's a dance too," Alice said. "But I didn't quite master it so I thought we could skip that part."

"And now I'm pregnant?" Carol asked.

"Now you're on your way to it," Alice responded. "You'll stay here, just like this, for about half an hour and then you can go home. Relax. Spend some time together doing whatever you feel _moved_ to do. In about eight days? I'll run a blood test and we'll find out if we got lucky. Any other questions for me?"

Carol watched as Alice cleaned up and washed her hands in the tight exam room. It was smaller than her "office" which also had an examination table, but it provided a little more privacy.

"No," Carol said. "I don't think I have any. Can I do anything wrong? Anything to—mess it up?"

"Just treat the whole thing like you're pregnant," Alice said. "Don't do anything you wouldn't do while you're pregnant. No drinking or anything like that. Other than that? You can't—shake a baby out. You're not going to. Don't do any heavy lifting and lay off the combat sports. Just go home, be normal—make baby."

Alice laughed at herself and Carol laughed too. Alice directed the same question to Daryl, who was halfway through consuming his thumb from the looks of it, but he shook his head—no, he didn't have any questions. Not yet. There might be some to come.

Since Alice had a number of things to do, and Carol knew she was busy, the woman set a timer for her and told her that she and Daryl could leave when the timer went off. All she'd have to do was pick up the phone and request an escort to take them back home. Carol let her know that she understood, and then she closed her eyes, hoping that imagining positive results for the few minutes that she had to lie there might, somehow, make sure that things were working as they should be.

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Daryl rolled over and eased his way out of the bed. He didn't bother with clothing of any kind as he walked to the bathroom to relieve himself. Carol was asleep. He'd still be napping too if the need to piss hadn't dragged him out of his dreams. When he was done, he washed his hands in their sink and washed his face for good measure. The cool water immediately woke him up a little. They had no reason to go out today. Their dinner was going to be delivered and they were under doctor's orders to relax for the rest of the day. He took himself to the kitchen and got a bottle of water out of the refrigerator. He cracked the top on it and drank half the bottle on his way back to the bedroom. As he eased back into the bed, Carol sat up and let him know that she wasn't as asleep as he'd imagined.

"Can I have some of that?" She asked.

Daryl passed her the bottle without making her even indicate that's what she wanted. He watched her as she sucked down most of what was left. Then, realizing she'd almost drank it all, she stopped and tried to pass it back to him. He shook his head and pushed it back at her.

"Finish it," he said. "There's more if you want it."

"I didn't mean to drink it all," Carol said.

"And I don't care," Daryl responded. "Drink it."

She did finish it, and Daryl put the bottle out of the way before he slid back down into the sheets and turned on his side to face her. She looked at him, a hint of a smile on her face, and he reached his fingers out to stroke the soft curls that hung just at her ears.

"Hair's growing," Daryl said. It wasn't long by any means, but it had grown since he'd first met her—and now it was a mess of silver curls that twisted and twirled in every which direction. She laughed quietly.

"Yours too," she said. "You need a haircut. I guess—I do too."

"Leave it if you want," Daryl said. "But I'ma get mine taken care of. I like yours like this. It's soft."

"It wasn't soft when it was shorter?" Carol asked. She ran a hand through her hair and tugged at her own curls. Daryl shrugged at her.

"Felt the same," he said. "Guess I mean—you just seem softer."

Carol sighed and flopped back on her pillow.

"That's the last thing I want," she said. "To go soft? After everything?"

"Not such a bad thing," Daryl said. "Not if we're safe here."

"But if we're not..." Carol said.

"Cross that bridge when we come to it," Daryl said. "Might be good for you to go a little soft. I mean—if we're having a baby and all? Baby might want to grow—might want to grow in a soft mama, ya know? Just nicer for babies."

Carol laughed to herself.

"You're an expert on it now?" Daryl laughed to himself and hummed. He wasn't an expert at all. He'd never even really been around a pregnant woman. "I don't know that they can tell," Carol said. "I mean plenty of babies were born out there. In the wild? And in Region Thirty Three."

She rolled back on her side to face him and he smirked at her.

"OK," he said. "Maybe then just because I like it? I don't mean you got to change or anything. I wouldn't want you to change. Just—relax. Go where you're already going—but it do without fighting it. Hell, I know I'm feeling softer these days. More relaxed. There ain't not a single soul put their hands on me unless it was you or someone who wanted to slap me, friendly-like, on the shoulder in what's got to be a month. I like it."

Carol licked her lips and Daryl wished he'd brought her another bottle of water. Maybe, if she was busy getting pregnant like they were supposed to be doing, she was extra thirsty. He could see how you might need more water than usual for that.

"I like it too," Carol admitted. "More than I realized I would. Maybe that's the scariest part of thinking it might fall apart. Every time I hear Alice talking about—worrying that it might get shut down? I realize it's not the being _killed_ that scares me. It's the idea of possibly having to go _back._ "

"We're not going back," Daryl said. "If we leave here, one thing's pretty certain. We're not going back. They might let us be free, or they might kill us, but they aren't filling the prisons back up. We'll never see Region Thirty Three again unless we're driving by it one day and showing our kids where we met—telling them about that time when the Wilds weren't as free as they are now."

He meant it as a little bit of a joke, but he saw Carol shudder at the thought.

"That's why none of us are letting this project fail," Carol said. "None of us. We've all got to do what we can to make this happen. I've talked to Alice about it and I believe it, Daryl. I believe that the project is for real. I believe that we can make it to freedom. But everyone's got to be in it. Like Samirah said. Alice and the others heading it up? They can't do it without us. Because, if it fails?"

Carol didn't say anything about if it failed, but she didn't have to. Daryl knew as well as anyone what would happen if it failed. They all did.

Daryl licked his lips and held her eyes with his own.

"I'm in," he said. "You know that. I'm in it. Whatever we gotta do? We'll do it. But..."

He broke off because his stomach wasn't agreeing with his brain on what a good idea it was to tell her everything that had been going on—circling around in his mind—for the past few days. His stomach was tying itself in knots in protest. And the funniest thing about it was that he didn't know why he should be afraid of her. He felt closer to her, honestly, than he'd ever felt to anyone.

"But?" Carol pressed.

Daryl swallowed down his nerves and tried to tell his stomach to relax. It was Carol. She wasn't threatening. There was nothing to fear around her. She made things feel _not frightening._

"I'm in this," Daryl repeated. "Doing what we got to do for the project. I'm in it."

"I heard that," Carol said. "But it was the 'but' that I was worried about."

"But," Daryl said, repeating the word with some emphasis, "I was thinking that this? This—you and me? This—baby if we get one?" Carol nodded her head at him, her eyebrows raised in question. Daryl sighed. "If we get one? I know we said we were doing it for the project—because that's what we gotta do and that's what they're needing and wanting us to do. But—I don't know if that's why I'm really hoping we're doing it. It was—but I don't know if that's why I'm wanting it anymore."

Carol's expression softened and she sat up a little more on her elbow.

"What do you mean?" She asked.

Daryl gnawed at his lip and tried to ignore his stomach's insistence than he should turn back now and never speak again for as long as he lived. His gut, he knew, had a way of overreacting.

"I feel like I'm doing this—because I want to do this," Daryl said. "With you. You and me. Like—if there weren't no project? If they weren't—telling us they needed like a head count to keep going? I'd still be wanting to do this."

The corners of Carol's mouth turned up slightly and she moved her hand. He felt her fingertips brush over his cheek. He felt her tuck his hair behind his ear. His stomach, all the while, continued to try to send the message to his brain that everything was a bad idea—even if his brain didn't agree.

"What are you saying, Daryl?" Carol asked.

"Just what I said," Daryl answered.

The corners of her mouth turned up a little more. She raised her eyebrows at him again.

"Are you saying that—you're doing this because you... _just_ because you...want to have a baby with me?" Carol asked.

Daryl's breathing, suddenly, picked up. It was a natural response to his stomach's carrying on. He realized that he couldn't answer her. Not then. Not with actual words. He nodded his head gently and hoped that would suffice for now. It must have been enough because she smiled sincerely and she leaned in, kissing him gently and nipping at his lips as she pulled away.

"Me too," she said. She stole another quick kiss and then nuzzled her nose against his cheek as she moved her body over and closer to his. "I want to have a baby with you too. The rest? It's just— _extra._ "

Daryl wrapped his arms around her. He pulled her into him and he wondered, for a moment, if she could hear his heart thundering. He wondered if she was aware of his faster breathing and if she might have some knowledge of the rushing sensation that ran through his veins when he heard her echo, in such a soft voice, the thoughts that he was having.

He wondered, too, what it all meant.

But she wasn't forcing him to put words to it, and he wasn't asking it of her either. There would be time for that. They had plenty of time. For the moment, Daryl simply rolled her body under him and found her lips again for himself.

After all, if they both wanted to have a baby, and this was their perfect window of opportunity, they better do everything they could to make sure that it took. The rest would keep—for at least a little while.


	47. Chapter 47

**AN: Another chapter here.**

 **And a quick PSA of sorts because we still have a lot to come and a lot to be revealed (including some people to meet who will bring in other insights). I won't tell you how to feel about any particular characters here and I won't tell you what anyone's "complete" role is until it's revealed within the story (and everything will be revealed eventually). The one thing I'll remind you of is that, outside of fairy tales, there's no such thing as a purely good or a purely bad person. This story, if you hadn't guessed (though I'm sure you have) isn't really a fairy tale. It's meant to have a look at human nature, maybe even in some of its rawest forms. The dividing line between "good" and "bad" is sometimes a little blurry. Just something I wanted to mention, just to keep in mind, as we go along.**

 **I hope that you enjoy the chapter. Let me know what you think!**

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Alice was taking her time sending a guard to let Carol out of the house and escort her to the office to start her workday. Carol expected as much, though. Alice wanted her to rest—she might think she was recovering from a night with next to no sleep. But Carol was dressed and waiting—having pushed Daryl out of the bathroom for most of the morning—when there came the first knock at the door that was post-breakfast delivery. Carol opened the door to find Grady standing there. The young man smiled at her.

"Morning, ma'am," he said.

Carol couldn't help but smile back at him. He was one of the few people around there who called her "ma'am" and she appreciated it. She might have thought it made her sound old before, but now it just made her feel like a normal human being.

"Good morning, Grady," Carol said. "Daryl's running a little behind—but he won't be long."

She glanced around and noticed that Grady was unaccompanied. Some days there were guards that came with him. Other days there were other workers. It all depended, Carol supposed, on where he was in his morning. Today he was by himself. He shook his head at her.

"Doesn't matter," he said. "We've got time."

Carol leaned against the doorframe, keeping her body inside so as to not appear to be any kind of threat to the young man, and studied him. His face was peeling and fresh sunburn blended with old sunburn. He needed a haircut. He looked like he needed, honestly, just a little tender loving care. She expected, perhaps erroneously, that all the "free" people would be, somehow, much more well-put-together than everyone deemed to be wild animals.

Her staring, though, obviously made Grady a little uncomfortable.

"I didn't say it because—well, I forgot to say it. But I wanted to tell you that—that I was sorry," Grady said. To indicate what he was sorry for, he tapped the doorframe. Carol knew what he was gesturing toward. Where the white flower had been before, it had been replaced with what was supposed to be a white dove—the symbol of a child lost—though it looked more like a simple generic bird.

"Thank you," Carol said sincerely. Even though she hadn't really lost a baby, a heartfelt offering of condolence meant something. At least it meant that Grady thought enough of her to _care_. "But—we're doing well. We've been trying again and we're hoping, very soon, to have the white flower back."

Grady's cheeks turned a little pink and he smiled, nodding his understanding at her. He mumbled something that might have been a wish for good luck or it might have been something else entirely. It didn't matter because Carol missed it, whatever it was. She was already thinking about something else. Something that had been rolling around in her mind for a while.

"Grady...you were wild born?" Carol asked. He shook his head.

"Wild-captured child," Grady said.

"And your parents?" Carol asked. He shrugged.

"Captured," he said. "I guess they went to prison. Mostly I just guess they're dead."

Carol nodded her head and focused on maintaining her smile. She glanced over her shoulder to see Daryl walking around—in search of his boots—and she almost wished she'd hidden them to buy herself more time to chat with Grady.

"You were in a foster family right away or did you ever go to a facility?" Carol asked. Grady shrugged again.

"Mostly I was in a home," Grady said. "I guess—maybe it weren't that long. But then I got a family."

"So they're more like your family than the one you—started with?" Carol asked.

Grady shook his head and this time he laughed to himself. He scratched at the back of his neck.

"No, ma'am," he responded. "Once wild, always wild. It don't just apply to the grown-ups."

"But you're free?" Carol asked. "You always have been?"

"Free as I can be," Grady said. "I guess. The government didn't never hold it against me that I was a kid out there. But that doesn't mean that other people didn't. Even my own family. My foster family always thought I was wild. Anything I ever did—it was because I was wild. But now? I'm pretty free of them too, if you know what I mean."

Carol nodded her head.

"I think I do," Carol said. "And—Grady? You're _not_ wild. No more than me or any of us."

He blushed pink again and almost knocked her out of the way to get to Daryl as he walked up behind her. The conversation, more than likely, was one that he preferred not to have for too long. Daryl rested a hand on Carol's shoulder and she turned her attention away from Grady to look at him.

"You gonna be OK today?" Daryl asked.

Carol smiled at him and nodded. He didn't understand a lot about what it might mean if she were pregnant. More than anything, he'd have to learn that it didn't mean that she was made of glass and given to needing assistance with everything and at all times.

"Fine," she assured him. "Go to work. Alice will be sending for me soon."

As an answer, Daryl tipped his head and kissed her. Despite the fact that they had an audience, it was a sincere enough kiss that Carol felt it all the way to her core. She hated to let him go, but she did—because they both had things to do. She stepped back from the door so that Grady could lock it behind him, and she didn't miss that the young man had blushed so pink at seeing the kiss that even the tips of his ears were slightly red.

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"But how is it that, out of every wild-captured child there could've possibly been out there, all of ours managed to die while others clearly lived?" Carol asked as she followed Alice around the office while the woman packed supplies into the duffle bag she carried with her while she went from house to house and made "house calls" on people who had requested them and people who weren't expecting them alike.

"Do you _think_ I can solve the mysteries of the universe?" Alice asked. "Because I can't. I'm just a doctor. And not a very good one at that."

"I'm just saying that maybe Samirah made a mistake," Carol said.

"And I'm just saying that I don't think Samirah is flat-out lying to you and everyone else," Alice said. "I've known her a little while. I trust Samirah. She's put her neck out for this project—and that means for all of you."

"I didn't say lying," Carol corrected. "I never said she was lying. I said that maybe there could've been a mistake. There must be fifty to eighty women here that lost children out there—at capture."

"Maybe not that many," Alice said.

"However many," Carol responded quickly. "Don't you think it's odd that that every single one of those children died? I mean—some of them I could see. Half of them, even. But every single one? I'm not a gambler, but that doesn't seem very reasonable. None of them survived?"

Alice sucked in a breath and froze with her back to Carol. She was trying to compose herself, that much was clear, and Carol let her have her time. She was the boss, after all. And, though their friendship grew a little more every day, Carol had to keep reminding herself that Alice was in a position of authority over her—a very strong positon of authority. She could push Alice some, but she had to respect her enough that the woman didn't tire of her entirely.

Alice turned around and walked a few steps to lean against her desk. She seemed to be thinking, but whatever she was thinking about didn't take her long.

"Wild-born and wild-captured children were sent to homes," Alice said. "Care facilities. Depending on what years they were captured during, they had a better or worse chance of finding a family." She shrugged. "It was the way of the land. It was the belief systems that were growing and the science behind them. Sometimes families wanted them—they believe they could rehabilitate them. Other times they didn't want them because they thought that there wasn't any hope for them. Other times, even? They wanted them just because the government was offering other _incentives_ for taking them. The children's care facilities were filling up just like the prisons. The government didn't _care_ that much about the kids. They wanted them to grow into productive citizens, if they were going to grow, but they really didn't care that much. The files were messy. Some of them were lost. One of the care facilities burned to the ground. There was a wild release—an _attempted_ wild release—and the wilds that were turned loose stormed the town and burned most of the place down in the scuffle. They were killed. The people in the town were killed. And, as far as we know, most of the children were killed."

Carol felt her throat closing up just at imagining everything that must have happened—everything that she was entirely unaware of because she'd spent all that time simply focusing on survival.

Alice shook her head at Carol.

"I'm sorry," she said sincerely. "I really am. But the records were never well-kept on the children. Even today, when they show up somewhere as adults or semi-adults? They have to self-identify as wild-captured children because otherwise? There's no record that they even _exist_ —that they _ever_ existed."

"And we're the animals?" Carol asked. She forced herself to swallow as rapidly as she could. Alice frowned at her. She knew the doctor wasn't responsible for everything, but still it was difficult, sometimes, to keep from holding it against her.

"That hasn't even been the worst thing that's happened," Alice said. "We're all animals. But some people? Are a lot less compassionate than others."

"So my daughter might not be dead?" Carol asked.

Alice's frown only deepened and she looked away from Carol to examine the walls of the office as though they were anything but bare.

"It's better to think that she is," Alice said. "That's why Samirah said—what she said."

"So she did lie," Carol said.

Alice looked at her then. She shook her head gently.

"She didn't lie. She doesn't know either—not really. She gave an answer. The best answer she had. She told you something because you wanted an answer," Alice said. "She told everyone the answer that—would work best for them. The truth is? She can't get an answer because the answers just don't exist. They're not available for her. They're not available for me. But if we told you that your children just— _disappeared_? If we told you that they might be dead or they might be—alive. They might be happy or they might be—just lost?"

"But they might be _alive_ ," Carol said. "That's what you're saying. They might be alive out there, somewhere?"

"I'm saying it doesn't matter," Alice said. "As horrible and as harsh as that sounds? It doesn't matter because there aren't answers. There will _never_ be answers because nobody has them. The children? If they are alive? They don't remember you. And—you'd have to search through every child alive to see if you had a chance of recognizing yours after all these years. And then? If you found her? You'd have to accept that she might not recognize you. She might not— _want_ you."

Carol didn't explain herself. She walked over and sat down in the chair that Alice used at her computer because it was the closest place to her where she could get off the knees that were threatening to betray her. She didn't realize that she'd given over to crying—something that happened almost involuntarily these days—until Alice bumped her arm and offered her a tissue.

"I'm not saying any of this to hurt you," Alice said. "Samirah didn't say what she said to hurt anyone. Nobody here wants to hurt any of you. That's why we're here. For the hurting to _stop_."

"She took away our _hope_ ," Carol said, almost gagging on the words. "You—took away our _hope_. And it was all—it was all that some of us had _left!"_

Alice shook her head at Carol and rubbed at her back.

"I didn't take it away. Neither did Sam. We just—let you start letting go of it because we knew that it was false hope and you couldn't move—you can't move forward if you're holding onto the past. Especially if it's a past that you can never get back," Alice said. "And that's why—it's _one_ of the reasons why—we're working so hard to give you something now. Some _new_ hope for a future that you _can_ have."

Alice stood up, but she continued to rub Carol's back for a moment. Finally, she stopped the repetitive action and went back to packing her bag. Carol heard the zipper as she slid it shut.

"I'm not going to tell you how to feel," Alice said. "I've got too much stuff to do today to try to dictate people's feelings. Take some time. When you're done? I need you to pull those files I listed for you. And then? Could you clean the exam room? I've got two new mommies to be coming in later. But—wear a mask? Just in case."

Carol remained where she was and listened as Alice left, closing the door behind her, but not locking it because she never bothered to engage the lock anywhere that she went.


	48. Chapter 48

**AN: Here we go, just another small piece more.**

 **I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"Hey Andrea? Are you in here?" Dr. Walker asked, peeking her head in the door. Not knowing how the woman might react, Michonne moved over in the bed and put a little distance between herself and Andrea, whom she'd been holding for most of the morning. Dr. Walker smiled at her and waved a hand in the air. "Don't worry," she said. "I'm not—I don't care. I just want to check on things. How are our patients? Mama and baby doing OK?"

She brought her bag into the room, inviting herself in as everyone did, and walked over to put a hand on Andrea's forehead.

"Better," Andrea admitted. "But not—great."

"Who _is_ doing great around here?" Dr. Walker asked. "Can you roll on your back for me? Can I just—feel around for a bit? You tell me if there's any pain?"

Andrea gave over to the woman's prodding and Michonne watched her. She trusted them, and she knew that the project had to be important, but she had spent half the night awake and handling Andrea's fear that she'd practically _evaporate_ the moment she closed her eyes. There'd almost been a meltdown the one time that Michonne had dared to go to the bathroom alone. It was wearing on her as much as it was Andrea.

Andrea made something of a grunt at some of the doctor's probing and she stopped pressing immediately.

"Hurt?" She asked.

"I have to pee again," Andrea said. Dr. Walker seemed to find that funny.

"Good," she said. "At least I know that there's liquid making its way through your body. I'm keeping you on that IV until I'm sure that things are back to normal. Did you want to go now?"

"Are you done pressing on my bladder?" Andrea asked. "Because if you are? I can wait."

"Cramping?" Dr. Walker asked.

"A little," Andrea said.

"Cramping from baby or the fact you still haven't eaten?" Michonne asked quickly, intersecting the doctor's line of questioning. Andrea looked at her and frowned because she hadn't mentioned the cramping before. She was already fearing a discussion about things when the doctor left.

"I can't tell," Andrea admitted. "I just don't—feel good. And I'm still gagging but now next to nothing is coming up."

"You have to put it in if you want it to come back out," Dr. Walker said. "I heard you sent back your breakfast. Now—you said you weren't going to do that. You said you were going to eat as long as Michonne got to stay here with you and I took her off work duty for a few days to even give you _extra_ time. And you—let me down. You sent back your breakfast."

"It wasn't her fault," Michonne said. Dr. Walker looked at her then. "It wasn't. They didn't send anything she wanted. They didn't send anything she thought she could eat. I got her to eat about six crackers. She drank some juice and a little of the milk. It made her sick. But they sent oatmeal and sausage to eat. It made her gag just coming in the door. I had to eat in the living room with Milton."

Dr. Walker sighed and took Andrea's hand affectionately. Andrea watched her movements, but she allowed her the touch.

"If you could have absolutely anything you wanted," Dr. Walker said, "just to try? What would you have?"

Andrea looked at Michonne like a child asking if she might have permission to speak. She didn't trust them—not at all. She was too afraid. Or maybe she was just too hurt by what had already been done. Michonne nodded her head at her.

"Buttered toast," Andrea said. "Buttered toast and—chicken noodle soup. But not together. And—crackers. Salty crackers with more of the ginger ale I had yesterday."

Dr. Walker laughed to herself and looked at Michonne.

"So the appetite is there?" Dr. Walker asked. Michonne shrugged and looked at Andrea, trying to demonstrate to the doctor that her best bet in everything was winning Andrea back over by addressing her. Dr. Walker seemed to pick up on her meaning because she stroked Andrea's hand that she was still holding. "So you _are_ hungry? You really just didn't want oatmeal and fried sausage."

Andrea winced at the mere mention of the food and Dr. Walker nodded.

"I won't mention it again," she assured her. "And I'll make sure that your order gets put in. Buttered toast, chicken noodle soup, crackers, and ginger ale. All separate for you to arrange as you'd like. And—I'll set it up so that all you have to do? Any time you get even the smallest feeling that you might want something to eat? Is pick up that phone. Tell them it's Mr. Mamet's _companion_ because they won't know you as Andrea. Tell them what you want. They'll bring it to you _immediately_. OK? But I need you to eat. And I need you to take those vitamins. Even if you throw it up? Some of it's going to stay down and something is better than nothing."

Andrea nodded, relaxing visibly as she sunk into her pillow.

"I don't think Milton cares about this baby," Andrea said. She shook her head. "He doesn't care about me."

"Milton cares very much," Dr. Walker said. "He just has his own way of showing it. Not everything that happens here is pleasant to Milton, either. Or any of us, for that matter. We're all doing what we have to do to save you. To save lives."

"Milton came by this morning," Michonne said. "He didn't ask how she was. He didn't ask if he could get her anything. He just asked her some questions. The same ones that he keeps asking."

"And do you answer them?" Dr. Walker asked.

"I'm tired of answering them," Andrea said. "I don't know what I'm answering them for. If you'd tell me anything, I'd play along. Night and day I'd answer any damn questions you have. I'll let you poke at me and press on me—I'll try to eat everything that you want me to eat. But I need to know something."

Dr. Walker sat there a moment and gnawed at her lip while she stared at the wall. Michonne noticed that Andrea, now, was stroking the woman's hand as it rested in her own. She was the one offering the comfort—or trying to convince her to say what she was struggling with keeping secret.

"I can't tell you everything because I don't know everything. He knows a lot more than I do—things he hasn't confided in me yet. He needs you to answer the questions because he has to record the differences in your responses," Dr. Walker said. "I know that much. I don't know everything. What I do know? And what you both need to know? Is that you answer him. Honestly. You answer me. Honestly. No matter what you tell us? You won't get hurt because of it."

She pulled her hand free and stood up. She wiped her hands on her pants, scrubbing them almost, and then she paced a few steps before she came back to the bed. She didn't sit down. Instead she stood there, somewhat looming over Andrea and Michonne both.

"You answer us both honestly," Dr. Walker continued. "If you tell me that you were thinking about killing yourself? That you stood in the kitchen with a knife to your wrist and the only thing that—stopped you from pulling it across? Was that you thought you felt your baby kick or that you—thought you heard something? I won't hold it against you. And it will _not_ come back to get you. I will _help_ you. However I can. Whatever you tell Milton? It won't hurt you or anyone else. Nothing either of us do is intentionally to hurt you. But...and if you repeat this, I will _swear_ that you didn't hear it from me and you're just as crazy as some of them think you are... _do not_ answer _any_ of those questions honestly when someone else asks them. No one. Just me or Milton. I don't care if we're with them. I don't care if we tell you to be honest. You _do not_ answer them honestly. You answer them _nicely_. You answer them _positively._ You have never been anything but a ray of sunshine and you've never thought anything but happy thoughts since you got here. Understand? Both of you?"

Michonne swallowed. She could hear the urgency in the woman's voice and she could see that she was unsettled by her own thoughts. She nodded and when she'd swallowed enough to find her voice, she spoke.

"We understand," was all she had to offer. The doctor's demeanor changed again.

"Good," she said with a sigh. "Cramps you said you had, but I want to know how you feel after you eat. You'll call the office. Just pick up the phone and ask to be transferred to medical. Tell me or my secretary, Carol. She'll get the message to me if I'm not there."

Michonne didn't say anything, but she wondered if the secretary could be Carol—their _friend_ Carol. If Andrea wondered it, too, she didn't let on.

"OK," Andrea offered quietly.

"Bleeding or spotting of any kind?" Dr. Walker asked.

"No," Andrea said.

"Any other pain?" Dr. Walker asked.

"No," Andrea said. "My head...but...that's probably from the not eating. And it's fine, really."

"Any other thoughts? Like—you had in the bathroom? Before you decided to put all this into motion?" Dr. Walker asked. "You can be honest with me. You need to be honest with me. And Milton," she added.

"No," Andrea said. "Not if Michonne really gets to stay."

"She really has to go back to work eventually," Dr. Walker said. "But she's not abandoning you. She's not leaving you. And she'll be back. She's just going to work. That part's over. I talked to Mr. Mamet and that's over. She's staying with you."

"I'm not going to do anything," Andrea said. "I'm not going to kill myself and I'm not going to hurt anyone. Especially not the baby. Not on purpose. I want him to be OK."

"Good," Dr. Walker said. "I'm going to order your food. And I meant what I said. You can call them any time you think you might want something. I don't care what you're eating right now as long as you're eating. Can you get to the bathroom OK?"

"I have been all morning," Andrea said.

"She's weak," Michonne said, forcing her voice to come out a little more upbeat than she felt it would naturally sound. She wanted to be positive for Andrea's benefit. "But it's hard to keep Andrea down."

Dr. Walker laughed.

"I bet it is. Can I steal Michonne? For just a moment?" Dr. Walker responded. Andrea looked between them and then sat up. She picked up the portable apparatus that they were using to hold the IV bag and stood. Dr. Walker reached a hand out to steady her, but Andrea pushed it away.

"I'm fine," she said. "I'll just go—pee and have a talk with my stomach. I'll be back."

As soon as Andrea closed the bedroom door behind her, Dr. Walker looked at Michonne.

"She's OK?" Dr. Walker asked.

"As fine as she can be," Michonne said. "She'll be fine. I know Andrea."

"I can see you do," Dr. Walker said. "I see how you're looking at me, too. I'm not here to hurt her. I'm here to take care of her. And when you're pregnant? And you need me? I'll be here to take care of you too."

"I won't be pregnant until she's had the baby," Michonne said. "I made that decision. Milton's pushing her to have another like she could get pregnant twice at the same time. And that's fine. She's made her peace with the fact that he's determined to have her pregnant twice. But—I thought I could have a baby in the interval. She'll have to rest. She'll need to heal and I can hold off whoever's worried about it by having a baby then. But—I won't get pregnant while she's pregnant."

Dr. Walker nodded.

"Too many hormones?" She asked, a little teasing in her voice.

"I need to be able to take care of her," Michonne said. "That's all."

"Does Andrea need that much taking care of?" Dr. Walker asked.

"You tell me," Michonne responded. "How much do you intend to torture her? How much does _he_ intend to torture her?"

"I've read her files and I've seen her post-taming," Dr. Walker said. "Andrea's seen torture. This is hardly torture."

Michonne felt, for a moment, like she was playing poker. She wasn't showing all her cards, but neither was the doctor. Michonne licked her lips.

"Psychological torture is torture," Michonne said. "It doesn't leave marks on the body, but some could argue that the damage runs deeper."

Dr. Walker sucked in a breath and let it out slowly.

"I know," she admitted. "And I'm sorry for that. But—it's Andrea's role here. And the solitude? It won't be the only thing that she has to go through. I'm sorry. I can't tell you that it's all over. I can tell you that—you can take care of her by reminding her that it's all temporary. That it _will_ all end. And that—eventually? It's all going to work out in her favor."

"Are you going to torture me? Too?" Michonne asked.

Dr. Walker shook her head.

"Not in the same way," Dr. Walker said. "But you love her. And I can see that. So—some of it might hurt you just because it hurts her." She shrugged. "Or maybe she isn't bothered by it anymore. We don't know. Maybe nothing—bothers her anymore now that you're with her. Maybe knowing it's temporary will get her through whatever might come."

"Can you at least tell me why?" Michonne asked. "Why Andrea? Why any of this?"

"Everything here is set up for a reason," Dr. Walker said. "Every single one of you has a role here. Some share their role with others, and some don't, but everyone has a role. Even those that are coming. Wave Thirty Three wasn't thrown together in a day. It was set up, carefully, for a reason. It's set up to get you all _freedom._ Real freedom. With real families and real—chances to love and to live as _people_. Real lives."

"If we've all got roles, then why Andrea? Why put her in this role?" Michonne asked.

"Because she's the second _Wild A_ ," Dr. Walker said. She shrugged. "She's Wild A. And I _helped_ shuffle her file to the top of the pile."

"Why?" Michonne asked. "Why would you set her up for something like this?"

"Because," Dr. Walker said. "Someone had to be her. They had to meet a certain criteria. And Andrea fit the criteria. And—out of all of those who fit the criteria? All of them that—I'd met before? Andrea was the _strongest_. There were plenty of people that I might have picked, but they didn't meet the criteria. Three files went to Milton—for him to pick based on resemblance to what he knows about the original Wild A and on his own personal tastes because he would have to procreate with her. And out of them, he picked Andrea. But she had to be in the pile because, out of the ones that might have been in the pile? She has the most _spirit_. And I was sure that she'd make it through whatever she had to go through. I was sure she had enough of a reason to live to get through whatever it might be. I didn't know what the reason was, but I was sure she had it. She had to. And I was right. And—now I know what her reason is. Or—should I say _who_? Your role? Is to keep being that _who_ and to keep reminding her of how much she's going to gain out of this. Because—no matter what they do or what they tell her? You'll keep each other, and you'll keep your children. I promise you that."


	49. Chapter 49

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Getting the chance to eat a "late lunch" out with her _mate_ wasn't too difficult for Carol. She simply asked Alice if she could arrange it and Alice had spoken to Grady and set the whole thing up. Carol acquired a picnic lunch from the dining hall and now she was sitting with Daryl on a small stone bench that was placed oddly near the walkway and was, more than likely, only temporarily located there until the construction on the fenced in property was finished.

"Are you gonna tell me what the hell's wrong?" Daryl asked, biting into his sandwich. "Because you got a real sour look on your face. Is it the food?"

"The food's fine," Carol said, though she really hadn't tasted hers to support that claim.

"The company?" Daryl asked, gesturing with his head in the direction of the red-headed guard that was keeping watch over them from a short distance away.

"I don't care about him, either," Carol said.

"Then I give," Daryl said with a snort. "Is it me? I did something to you so you had them hold me over from regular lunch so I could eat special with you and you could look at me like you hate me the whole damn time?"

Carol sighed and put her sandwich down.

"I don't hate you," she said. "In fact, it's got nothing to do with you." She glanced around and assessed the people in their immediate area to try to determine how many of them were even paying them attention. The red-headed guard seemed to be the only one that was interested in them and, honestly, he wasn't so much paying them attention as he was simply glancing at them every now and again like he expected them to do something that he'd have to get control over. Carol leaned a little closer to Daryl. "I talked to you know who today," Carol said.

Daryl raised his eyebrows at her.

"Santa Clause?" He asked. "It ain't real fair to talk in code if I don't get to know the code beforehand."

"Work," Carol said.

Daryl nodded then.

"You pregnant?" He asked.

Carol shook her head.

"I still don't know. That wasn't what I talked to her about," she said. She could understand why that would be the first place that Daryl went with his questioning—it was certainly their main concern these days. "I talked to your work person this morning. Daryl—he was wild captured as a child."

Daryl shrugged.

"So?" He asked.

"So—he's alive. They're not all dead. So when I talked to you know who? She tells me that most of them? They didn't even really know what happened to them. They told us they were dead to keep us from thinking about it, but they could be alive or dead," Carol said.

Daryl looked at her then, his eyes having been on a quick trip around to keep from drawing attention to the fact that they were sharing whispered conversation.

"Your daughter?" He asked. "Sophia?"

Carol nodded.

"Daryl, she could be _alive_ ," Carol said, not daring to let her voice get much above a whisper. "She could be—out there somewhere and I don't know where. And I don't know—how to find her. Short of going door to door—I don't know if I could _ever_ find her."

Daryl dropped his eyes down and picked at his sandwich. He shrugged his shoulders.

"She's out there?" he said, "Then we'll find her."

"How, Daryl?" Carol asked.

"They have to have records," Daryl said. "Maybe they ain't looking in the right place. They got records on all of us stretched back to capture. I've been moved around a lot, but still they know every tag number I ever had. You're telling me that they don't keep records on the kids?"

"That's what she said," Carol responded.

"Then maybe she just don't know how to look," Daryl said. "You know Sophia's tag number? You ever heard it?"

Carol nodded her head.

"I heard it when they processed us," Carol said. "They'd already taken her away, but I heard one guard tell it to another. I memorized it. WB639."

"WB?" Daryl asked.

"Wild Born," Carol said.

"You said she was borned before it all happened," Daryl said, some question in his voice.

"She was," Carol said. "But—I guess they got it wrong." Carol's chest caught as soon as the words left her mouth. "Do you think—that they might not have found her records because I told them she wasn't wild born and they were searching for Wild Capture? Do you think—they couldn't find her because she wasn't _listed_ correctly?"

Daryl hummed.

"It's as good a chance as any," Daryl said. "Why don't you—talk to you know who? See if—she can't..." He wiggled his fingers and mimed typing quickly. "Look something up? Do a check? For all the good it'll do. I don't know what good it would do at all. I think—and mind you nobody asked me what I think—that they might've lied just because they got no intention of bringing the kids back what was lost or taken away. What's done is done. Leave it where it is. Figure—they spent all these years in new lives, just let them live the new ones they got."

Carol's stomach clenched.

"I don't want to disrupt Sophia's life," Carol said. "If she's happy? I don't want to be the reason that she's unhappy. But—I _do_ want to know if she _has_ a life. I want—I want to know if she _is_ happy."

Daryl stared at her.

"You just want to know," he said. "One damn way or another."

Carol nodded her head.

"The not knowing will drive me crazy," she said. "It'll kill me."

Daryl shook his head.

"Can't let it do that," he said. "Too damn many things trying to kill you to let it happen from inside your own head. Talk to her. You know who. Ask her to look around. But—if that don't work? We'll find her."

"How?" Carol asked.

Daryl broke his focus on her and looked around them again. He turned his head so that his eyes could take in the full span of everything that was visible from where they sat. He wasn't looking at her when he started to speak again.

"Nothing we can do in here," Daryl said. "Nothing we can do until—we're declared _human_. Not dangerous. Big Red over there? He looks like he'd like to shoot both of us just for existing. You can bet he ain't the only one. So—right now? We do what the hell we're doing. We show 'em just how good we can be. We show 'em just how human we can be. We focus on us. We focus on the kid we're wanting. We get our freedom. And then? Hell, we'll buy a RV and we'll drive door to door and knock at the door of every damn house in the country, if that's what you want to do. But we'll find her. It just ain't gonna be right now."

Carol's throat felt swollen and she forced herself to swallow around the lump. The food that she was supposed to be eating couldn't look less appetizing if it had fallen in the dirt and gotten stepped on by the angry looking red-headed guard that was watching them.

"I've waited this long," Carol said, "and so has she. I don't suppose waiting a little longer is going to hurt anyone. Especially when I don't even know where to start."

"We'll figure that out too," Daryl assured her. "Don't you worry about that. If she's out there, we'll find her."

"I almost wish I didn't know that it was a lie," Carol said. "I know that makes me sound—like a horrible person but, I almost wish I didn't know that they just don't know anything."

"Maybe that's why they said what they said?" Daryl asked.

"That's what I hear," Carol confirmed. "I thought—not knowing was better than thinking that she was gone. But I'm not sure I was right. I think—I started to let go. And now?"

"You don't got to ever let go," Daryl said. "Even if what they said was true, you don't got to let go. Not all the way. She was your kid. She _is_ your kid. Alive or...or not...she's still your kid."

"We can't say anything to anyone," Carol said. "The lie can't get out."

"My lips are sealed," Daryl confirmed.

"I could tell Michonne and Andrea, though," Carol said. "We know them. We know they'd never tell. They'd never say anything to anyone."

"You wanna tell 'em?" Daryl asked. He went back to eating his food. He was done looking around, pretending that he wasn't paying her attention for the moment. "That what you want to do?"

"I don't know if I should," Carol admitted. "I found out—I can talk to them whenever I want. They have a direct line now to the clinic. But I talked to Michonne and she said that Andrea's—well, she's going to be fine, but she's not doing great right now. I don't know if I even want to tell her. Then she'll just be right where I am now."

"Be stuck in the suffering of the not knowing?" Daryl asked. Carol nodded. "Then don't tell her," Daryl said. "Maybe not right now. There ain't nothing we can do right now anyway that won't get us killed. Maybe—you just don't tell her until there's something we _can_ do."

"And then what?" Carol asked.

Daryl laughed to himself.

"And then we get a bigger ass RV and we put them in the damn thing with us and we all go door to door all over whatever is left of this country and we look for the kids. Hell—if we find 'em? We figure out what we're gonna do then," Daryl said.

Carol smiled to herself. In spite of the way the whole thing made her feel, she couldn't help but smile at Daryl's confidence. Whether it was real or not, it _seemed_ real. He seemed certain that, freedom acquired, the four of them could set out with whatever children the project might give them and—in whatever was left of the country—find the children they'd lost. For Daryl, it seemed to simply be a matter of fact.

"Maybe I won't tell them," Carol said. "Not right now. Not with everything else. I'll wait until we're closer to getting out of here. I'll wait until—Andrea has the baby and we're sure that everything's going to go well with this whole wave project."

"Whatever you think is best," Daryl said.

Carol licked her lips. Whether he meant to or not, Daryl was helping her. She had no idea how he was doing it, and she was pretty sure that it wasn't intentional, but just sitting on the stone bench with him and telling him what she had to say was untying a few of the knots in her stomach.

"Daryl?" She asked. He hummed at her and burrowed in the basket in search of what other food was packed in there. "If we found her? Sophia?" Carol broke off and Daryl looked at her. He hummed at her again, pressing her to continue speaking. She shook her head at him. "I don't even know if she'd remember me," Carol said. "I don't know if she'd want to be with me. Like we said, she might have her own life now. She might not want that life disrupted."

"Yeah," Daryl said, "but I hear a _but_ coming in there so why don't you just come up for air and say what's on your mind? We'll fill in all the rest later."

Carol laughed to herself.

"But what if she _did_?" Carol asked. "I mean—I know she's almost grown by now and she doesn't really need me. But what if she wanted to come with us? To be..."

Carol broke off again. She almost said "part of our family." It almost slipped out. But her mind stopped her just before she said it and reminded her of how odd it was to think about that. They'd be a _family_. She and Daryl were deemed _mates_ right now. They were _companions_ when people were being polite. But out there? With their freedom? What would they be? And would they really be parents? Would she be a mother again? A mother to Daryl's child, no less? And if Andrea and Michonne came with them? Would they be part of their family, even though they'd only met one another as prisoners and as hypothetical animals?

Just the word was overwhelming and, for the time being, Carol mentally stepped carefully away from it.

"What if she wanted to be with us?" Carol asked, reshaping her question. "What would that—I mean, how would _you_ feel about that?"

Daryl stared at her and carefully chewed the mouthful of food that he hadn't swallowed yet. He took his time with it, holding her eyes with his, and then he raised an eyebrow at her as soon as he swallowed it down.

"I don't know how you'd want me to feel," he admitted. "But I imagine I'd feel happy that you found her. I'd feel pretty glad that she wanted to stay with us. Probably—feel like we better start talking about our living arrangements because, depending on how many kids we all leave here with, and if T is gonna want to tag along too? That RV is getting tighter than the bunks were. I don't know if that—does that answer your question?"

Carol laughed to herself.

"You wouldn't mind it?" Carol asked.

Daryl smiled at her and shook his head.

"That's a question I _do_ know how to answer," he said. "No. I wouldn't mind it at all. In fact—I'm kinda looking forward to it." Carol nodded at him, feeling her eyes welling up. She tried to swallow back her emotion. Daryl pulled a napkin from the basket and offered it to her in place of a tissue. "Don't cry," he said. "You'll make your sandwich soggy. Besides—you better hurry up and eat. I think Big Red's gonna run us out of here before long."

He wasn't bothered by her crying. He hardly noticed it. The hormones, these days, were making her cry when she didn't understand it herself—so Daryl had given up trying to understand it. They simply had the running agreement that if she was crying for something that she thought he should know about, she'd let him know.

As if to reinforce his suggestion about eating, Daryl lifted her sandwich and offered it to her, almost putting it to her lips like he'd hold it for her to bite. Carol moved to take it and feed herself as the fully capable adult that she was.

"Thank you," she said.

Daryl laughed to himself.

"Not a problem," he said. "If I'd've known you needed it? I would've tried to feed you earlier."

Carol shook her head.

"I wasn't thanking you for the sandwich," Carol said.

Daryl offered her one of his half-smiles. He nodded his head.

"I reckon I knew that too," he said. "Eat your sandwich."


	50. Chapter 50

**AN: Here we are, another chapter.**

 **Warning here for mention of rape. It's not terribly detailed or anything, but it is mentioned so I wanted to offer a warning for anyone triggered by that.**

 **I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

1111111111111111111111111111111111111

"Do you think you've got any chance of—of stopping worrying and going to sleep?" Daryl asked. "I'm not trying to push but—I gotta clean up scrap all day tomorrow cleaning up after that construction crew. And it's all gotta get done tomorrow because then we got them days off for the big surprise. Whatever the hell that means."

Carol was surprised to hear his voice because she thought he was asleep. She thought he'd been asleep for at least a couple of hours and she thought that she'd been relatively quiet. But, apparently, he could hear her worrying.

"I can go to the couch," Carol said, starting to roll to get out of bed. Daryl caught her arm in the semi-darkness of their bedroom.

"Or you can tell me what the hell's going on and we can talk about it and then we can both go to sleep," Daryl offered.

"It's nothing," Carol said. "At least—it's nothing new."

It was nothing new. It was just the constant repetition of everything that could possibly go wrong all circling around in her mind. It hardly ever stopped, but it was loudest at night when she had nothing else to occupy her.

"Wanna talk about it?" Daryl asked.

Carol smiled to herself because she could hear the heaviness in his voice. He'd at least dozed a little while he'd been in bed. She could tell that he wanted, too, to return to that state as soon as possible. He was awake, but he was attempting to hover somewhere around the line between sleeping and waking without giving over entirely to being conscious.

"I want you to go to sleep," Carol responded.

"Wanna—hold my hand?" Daryl asked. He laughed to himself as he felt around in the darkness and, finding her elbow first, worked his way down her arm to trap her fingers with his. At first the action was playful, but then it was a gentle grasping of her hand in his. His thumb trailed over her hand lazily.

"That's supposed to make me feel better?" Carol asked, making sure that she put enough joviality in her voice to let Daryl know that she was teasing.

He hummed at her.

"It did," he said. "It has, at least. Before."

Carol swallowed. She remembered.

"In the taming pens," she said.

He hummed.

"Don't talk about that," he said.

"It does," Carol mused. Daryl hummed in question and moved around a little on his side of the bed, tugging at Carol's hand accidentally as he did so. "It does make me feel better," Carol said, clarifying her statement.

"Better enough to sleep?" Daryl asked.

Carol answered his question by settling back in the bed and moving closer to him. She untwined her fingers from his and, instead, found his body. He shifted again and settled on his back and Carol carefully curled herself close to him to see if he'd protest. When he didn't, she rested her head on his arm—and he still didn't protest.

"Did you want to tell me what was on your mind?" Daryl asked.

"I think it's gone," Carol admitted. "At least—for now."

"Keep 'til morning?" Daryl asked.

Carol laughed to herself. Nothing she worried about these days was anything that was going away. It was never anything exactly new or original. Everything she worried about would still be there the following day.

"Oh yeah," she agreed. "It'll keep until morning."

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"Milton! Who is Wild A?" Andrea asked. She heard the strain in her own voice from repeating the question. She'd drawn out every word of it in a different way each time she'd repeated it.

"I brought Michonne here for your comfort," Milton responded. "I brought her for you. Not for me, Andrea. Not for the project. I brought Michonne here so that you could be happy. Not so that I could be threatened in my own home. I do _NOT_ appreciate being threatened in my own home!"

Milton's voice broke out into a yell at the last line and Andrea backed up instinctively. She hadn't seen Milton anywhere near what she might classify as angry, but it was obvious that he was getting there. Michonne backed up as well, both of them giving him some space in the living room. They'd woken up well before dawn to wait for him—since he usually managed to slip out while they were both still sleeping these days—and trap him into speaking to them. It was clear that Milton, his breakfast interrupted, was growing tired of being trapped.

"Nobody is threatening you," Andrea said. "Nobody. Not me. Not Michonne. We're not threatening you. But if I'm the second Wild A? Then I'd like to know where the first one is."

Milton looked at Andrea before he dropped his eyes somewhat mournfully back toward the breakfast that he'd barely begun to eat when they'd started questioning him.

"Who was the father of your baby?" Milton asked.

"I don't want to talk about that," Andrea responded. "I want you to tell me who Wild A is. Where is she? What happened to her?" She sighed and pulled out a chair to sit. Putting herself at Milton's level, instead of standing over him, visibly seemed to relax him a little. His shoulders changed—rolled back instead of showing how stiffly he sat in the chair—and he rolled his eyes toward Michonne. Andrea glanced at Michonne and gestured toward the couch with her head. Michonne took the hint and went to perch on the arm of the couch so she could still be somewhat included in their triangle. "Milton—this is your baby. You know that, right? It'll be my child. And Michonne will help me raise it. But it's your baby too. Your son or daughter."

"I believe I'm aware of that," Milton said. Andrea wondered if there might not have been a hint of amusement on his features.

"Are you?" Andrea asked. "Because you never ask me how I'm feeling. Beyond that one time in the bathroom when you asked me if you should call someone. You don't ask how the baby is and you don't ask how I'm feeling and you don't— _engage_ with me. You haven't even told me congratulations or that you're happy about this at all. And now I find out I'm some second Wild A? Am I just an incubator?"

Milton swallowed.

"Alice tells me everything about your health," Milton said. "She's a doctor. It's her job to monitor your health and report to me about it. I assumed that you would understand that I was pleased with the fact that you're pregnant. Would it make you feel better if I were to tell you congratulations? If I were to ask you about—how you're feeling?"

"Yes," Andrea said. "It would, actually. Especially if—you weren't asking me about how I _would_ feel if you did something horrible to me."

"In addition to that?" Milton asked. "Because the questions that I ask you are necessary for the project. There are unpleasant aspects of this whole project for everyone involved. I do what I do for the greater good. For your own good. Long term."

"In addition to the questions," Andrea ceded. Milton nodded his head. He reached across the table, a short distance, and dragged the leather bound legal pad toward him that he was carrying these days. He opened the cover and used his pen to scratch notes on the pad. Andrea assumed that, maybe, he needed a reminder to ask polite questions in addition to the ones that he normally subjected her to answering. She waited until he was done. When he didn't say anything else, she assumed he was going to wait for a fresh new day to start with the polite chit-chat. And she didn't care, because she had other things on her mind. "Who is Wild A, Milton?" Andrea asked again.

"Who was the father of your baby?" Milton asked.

"Quid pro quo?" Andrea asked. "I answer yours and you answer mine?"

"I'll tell you what I can," Milton said. "But I can't tell you everything. To do so would be to compromise the whole experiment. The whole project of Wave Thirty Three. To do so would mean starting over and it would mean that—you would be removed from the project. Do you know what that means, Andrea?"

"They would kill me," Andrea said.

"First they would keep you in prison," Milton said. "Long enough for the child to be born. They would tell me that you were well, but what they would really mean is that you were alive. They wouldn't tell me anything else about you once they'd given me the child, for whom I'd have to find a suitable surrogate."

"What can you tell me?" Andrea asked.

"Who was the father of your baby?" Milton repeated.

"What does that matter?" Andrea asked.

"It matters, I believe, a great deal more than I even know at this precise moment," Milton said.

"I don't know," Andrea said. "We weren't formally introduced."

"A type of insemination in the wild?" Milton asked.

"The type where—I didn't hear them coming," Andrea said. "We made camp and set snares. Michonne went the next morning to check the snares and I was washing clothes. I guess they hit me with something. I didn't know him. I told you before that there were some horrible people who took advantage of their situation in the wild." Milton nodded and scratched something on the piece of paper. "Please don't write that down," Andrea said.

"You have to be honest with me, Andrea," Milton said. "It's important that I know—your history. What happened to the man?"

"He lost his head over the whole thing," Michonne said. "Am I allowed to answer?" She asked, raising her eyebrows at Milton when he looked at her like she'd done something out of turn. He nodded.

"You mean to say that he went mad from grief or shame or some other such emotion?" Milton asked, this time directing his question to Michonne.

"I mean to say that it wasn't hard for me to find them," Michonne said. "And when I found them? And saw—what was going on? He lost his head. I decapitated him. Then I killed the other three men that were with him."

"I see," Milton said, scratching further notes onto his legal pad. "Do you ever regret that course of action?"

"Never," Michonne said. "And—just so you know? I'd do it again." Andrea saw Michonne stir a little, like she might stand up from her seat on the arm of the couch. In many ways, Andrea had made peace with what happened that day more than Michonne had. "You weren't planning anything like that, were you, Milton?"

Milton shook his head.

"On the contrary," Milton said. "It was one of the changes that I made from the original model."

"What _model_ is this?" Andrea asked. "That you keep talking about?"

"The model for recreating the circumstances of Wild A," Milton said blankly. "The woman about whom you have so much interest."

"I'm interested in her because, apparently, I'm supposed to _be_ her," Andrea said.

Milton cleared his throat.

"You are not Wild A," he said. "In fact, it's incorrect to say that you're even the second Wild A. You're Andrea. A late captured wild who is part of the experiment to recreate, study, and record the experiences of Wild A following a modified model. Does that make you feel better informed?"

"No," Andrea admitted. "Because I still don't know who Wild A was or what the— _fuck_ is in this _model_."

"Telling you everything would force me to start again," Milton said. "And I've already told you that if that were to happen? You would be the one to suffer the most loss. It's really better to trust me. If you trust me, you won't get hurt. After the _incident_ , how did you react when you learned you were pregnant?"

"Does she really have to answer this?" Michonne asked, interjecting on Andrea's behalf. Andrea waved a hand at her.

"You want to know something about Wild A," Milton said. "My questions and the way that you answer them will help me determine how much I can tell you without compromising the integrity of the project."

"I'll answer them," Andrea assured him. "I—was upset, at first. I didn't know I was pregnant until I was pretty far along. I kept explaining away the symptoms. I think Mich knew before I did, but she didn't make me come to terms with it. But—when I finally accepted it? I had _no choice_ but to come to terms with it. I was going to have a baby. A baby was something that I had always wanted, but never really thought I'd have. I chose to look at it as a blessing out of something terrible."

"So you weren't angry?" Milton asked.

"I was angry about what happened," Andrea said. "But—I never felt angry with my son. He was a baby. A perfect, _wonderful_ little boy. And I wasn't angry with him because he didn't do anything to me or anyone else."

"But you were angry when they took him?" Milton asked.

Andrea shrugged and swallowed. She could feel her throat swelling and chest aching. All they had to do was mention it and she felt like she couldn't breathe. She had managed to overcome a number of things in her life—Andrew's conception among them—but she hadn't managed to overcome her feelings surrounding her capture. She shook her head.

"I don't know if _anger_ was what I felt first," Andrea admitted, hearing herself choking on her own words.

"What emotion would you say you felt?" Milton asked.

"All of them," Andrea said. "Every _terrible_ emotion that exists—all at once."

Milton nodded his head.

"Did you want to kill them?" Milton asked.

Andrea nodded her head. It was the only response that she could give.

"You did kill one of them, didn't you? One of your captors was killed at your capture," Milton said.

"I killed him," Michonne said. "When they processed us, they assumed it was Andrea. She thought that—they would kill her for it and she said it was her. I found out later that she took the rap for it. But—I killed him. She couldn't have. They took her in unconscious. Strangled her because she wouldn't—stop screaming and fighting."

"You thought they would kill you and still told them you did it?" Milton asked.

Andrea sucked in a breath and held it for a moment, wishing it would somehow calm her mind.

"I wanted to die," she said.

Milton nodded his head.

"Do you want to die now?" He asked.

"Sometimes," Andrea said. "You know that."

"I know you _wanted_ to die," Milton said. "Do you want to die now? At this moment?"

"Are you going to _make_ me _want_ to die?" Andrea asked.

"Your death is the farthest thing from my intentions," Milton said.

"Who was Wild A?" Andrea asked.

Milton closed the cover from his legal pad.

"My breakfast is already cold," Milton said. "I don't like—to eat it when it's cold. I'm going to be late for work and I don't like tardiness. You need to call them for your breakfast and you need to eat because Alice says that's an important thing when you're pregnant. What you've told me will help me decide how much I can tell you. Any of you. Both of you. I'll tell you this evening _after_ I've eaten my dinner in peace and without threat from either of you."

"Can we tell T-Dog too?" Andrea asked.

"You can tell any of your friends," Milton said. "As long as they have the presence of mind to keep a secret to save their own lives. To save all of your lives."


	51. Chapter 51

**AN: Another chapter here.**

 **For anyone reading, there's a warning here of mention of suicide. It's literally just mentioned, but I know some people like a warning for such things.**

 **I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"They're sending an escort," Carol told Daryl while he was still in the shower. "I'm going, but you don't have to."

"Do you really think this asshole's going to tell us anything anyway?" Daryl asked. "I mean—half the time when people around here talk I feel like I'm listening to the damn Riddler or something. It's like listening to a damn Rubik's cube."

"Michonne said that he was going to tell us what he could," Carol said. "I don't know what that means, but anything is more than we know and right now the only way that I'd have of finding it out, if I don't go, is trying to listen to Michonne speak in some made up code over the phone. And that puts us all at risk."

"They aren't gonna say shit that they're sending a guard to take us there?" Daryl asked. He pulled back the curtain and Carol handed him the towel to dry himself off. She didn't say anything to him when he shook the water out of his hair in a manner that was somewhat reminiscent of a dog drying itself off.

"Milton requested it," Carol said. "Me, you, and T. As long as Milton requests it, I don't think they question anything. He's—kind of a big deal."

Daryl laughed to himself and finished drying off.

"Yeah, whatever," he said. "I mean—if you're goin' of course I'm going. I'm not letting you go up there alone."

"I won't be alone," Carol said. "Andrea's there, Michonne is there...T is going."

"Like I said," Daryl said, "I'm going. Just—let me get some clothes."

"Are you worried about me going alone, Daryl?" Carol asked. "Because—if you don't want to go, you really don't have to."

Daryl looked at her and made a face like he was somewhat offended by her question of whether or not he was concerned. She wasn't positive if it was in response to the fact that she asked the question or to the fact that he didn't like his worry pointed out to him. She bit her lip to keep from smiling and let it lie. She left him to get dressed while she lingered near the door and waited for their escort.

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Milton cleared his throat more times than was necessary. Even if he'd been choking on something, he'd have to be free from it by now. Andrea had brought him a glass of water to try to ease things, but she could tell that he wasn't really as thirsty as his excessive throat clearing might lead some of them to believe. It was the audience that was making him nervous. She assumed that, in his line of work, he wasn't commonly forced to speak to audiences. He worked, from what she could tell, alone for the most part. It was almost certain that he didn't spend a lot of his time addressing audiences comprised entirely of Wilds.

Still, he seemed determined to soldier through it and he'd assured her that he had the fullest of intentions to tell her everything that he thought it was safe to tell her at the moment. The rest, he promised, he'd tell her when he felt it wouldn't jeopardize the project.

She, for one, would take whatever he gave her.

Andrea and Michonne had both hugged Carol and Daryl as soon as they saw them. Andrea offered Carol her condolences about the baby that they'd lost, but Carol seemed to have recovered well. She told Andrea that they were very much of the hope that they'd have good news very soon and that, apparently, was what they were focusing on. They'd gotten them drinks and now everyone was settled—Milton seated in front of the semi-circle they formed, almost like a king, in the chair that Andrea frequently used to trap him in—and they waited for him to work up to actually starting his story.

"The earliest assimilation projects started very differently than they're run now," Milton said. "Originally the state of being wild was treated as a temporary psychological state caused by the trauma of everything that happened. Wilds were institutionalized, but they weren't kept in prisons like Region Thirty Three."

"They were kept in mental institutions?" Carol asked. Milton nodded to the whole of his audience.

"There was a scientist by the name of William Kreegan that worked for the government and headed up some of those early assimilation projects. In one of these institutions, he found Wild A," Milton continued.

"What happened to her?" Michonne asked.

"I think he's going to tell us, Mich," Andrea said, elbowing her partner.

"He's going to tell us the story of the creation of the world first," Michonne mumbled.

"I don't care how he wants to tell his story," Andrea hissed back. "As long as he's telling it."

Andrea apologized to Milton for the interruption and he took a moment to start again.

"Kreegan took Wild A as his own special project in the year 5 A.T. He moved her to a private facility. The facility, in actuality, was connected to his own home. He studied her extensively. He recorded everything that he observed about her. It was the most intimate study of a Wild that anyone had done—it's still the most intimate study of a Wild that anyone's done. He studied her twenty four hours a day and he set up a recording device to record her when he was sleeping or couldn't otherwise be present," Milton said.

"So she lived with him?" Andrea asked. Milton nodded his head. "Like I live with you?" He shook his head.

"I have seen Kreegan's home," Milton said. "It's—open to the public. Naturally, when I was preparing my model for Wave Thirty Three, I paid a visit there to study the place where Kreegan kept Wild A. It was—more like a cell."

"There were bars?" Michonne asked.

"Among other things," Milton said. "The barest of necessities. As a wild animal, Kreegan reasoned that Wild A had very little use for material things."

"But we have anything we want," Carol said. "Practically at the touch of a button."

Milton glanced in Carol's direction, but he made no effort to answer her in any way.

"Kreegan believed that Wild A was an animal," Andrea said. "Milton believes we're human."

Milton nodded his head, but he didn't verbally confirm or deny Andrea's guess. It was one of the changes to the model. It had to be. He spoke of a model that he was following often and its modifications. Milton's modifications, no doubt, were changes that he made to Kreegan's original method for studying Wild A. Giving them creature comforts, and getting them out of the cells that they were in, must be one of the modifications—even if they weren't allowed complete freedom yet.

"What happened?" Andrea asked. "To Wild A? What—happened with Kreegan's project?"

Milton shook his head.

"I can't tell you much more than that," he said. "None of you. Kreegan published his findings. He became something of a celebrity. He was the founder of everything that we currently know and believe about Wilds. He also kept private records, which were much more detailed than his private findings, and I acquired those records for developing the model. His public findings, however, are all that's available to the general public. All of society's most firmly held beliefs about Wilds come from those findings and, perhaps, a little media sensationalism."

"Once wild, always wild," Carol said.

Milton offered a nod of the head, though it wasn't as much to Carol as it was simply to his audience as a whole.

"That doesn't tell us anything," Michonne said, some irritation in her voice. "It doesn't tell us why we're here. It doesn't tell us what you intend to do to Andrea or any of the rest of us."

"The Wild population is at risk of being exterminated," Milton said. "Violently. Entirely eliminated from the world in whatever means possible. Because of Kreegan's research, there was already a rising up when people started to hunt Wilds as though they were dangerous animals and even as though they were trophy animals. The government got that under control, but the modern prison system became the preferred way to deal with the Wilds. The prisons are full now and they're expensive to run alongside the costs of government run capture parties."

"So it's cheaper to just kill every damn one of us. A bullet a piece," Daryl offered. He got a nod of Milton's head. "So I'ma ask the damn question, then. If they just want us dead, and they don't believe we can ever not be Wild, then why are we here? Why the hell bring us here and let us think about getting free if we're never gonna be free?"

"Wave Thirty Three was developed to counter Kreegan's discoveries," Milton said. "If you will—Wave Thirty Three will prove that there were flaws in Kreegan's findings and in what he presented to the public. His experiment was incorrectly run and its scientific grounds are— _shaky_. If I can prove that Kreegan's findings weren't sound, and I can manage to prove that facts were not what he presented them to be, then his findings have to be thrown out. Scientifically speaking, there has to be a new way to perceive Wilds. Every part of this project is designed with Kreegan's model in mind. Nothing we've told you has been a lie. If Wave Thirty Three is successful, you all get your freedom as promised. In addition, the information gathered and disseminated among the general population will make life better for Wilds that haven't been captured and those that will be released from prisons when you've gained your freedom and they can go through similar assimilation projects."

"And if it fails," Carol said, letting her words trail off.

"If it fails, it will result in the mass extermination of all Wilds," Milton confirmed, not that it was news to any of them.

"This is the last chance?" Daryl asked.

"It's the only chance," Milton said. "Society, as a whole, is not overly supportive of something that threatens to change the way they perceive something they believe as truth—no matter how flawed the platform on which they based their original belief system."

"What gives with the babies, though?" T-Dog asked. "If all we gotta do is prove we're human—and it sounds like Andrea could do that alone since she's Wild A's version 2.0—why push the babies so much?"

"It's part of the model," Milton said. He stood up, suddenly, and shook his head. "I can't tell you anymore at this point. Anything more would compromise the project and you would be the ones that would pay for it."

"One more thing," Andrea said, trying to plead with him using her voice. She reached a hand toward him, but she fell short of actually touching him. "Just—one more?"

Milton looked at her.

"If I can," he said.

"Fair enough," Andrea said. "What happened to Wild A? The Weather Channel says it's the year 16 A.T. Kreegan started studying her in the year 5 A.T. That's only eleven years. Where is she? What happened to her? Can you—at least tell me that?"

Milton seemed to struggle with it for a moment.

"Wild A is deceased," Milton said.

"Did Kreegan kill her?" Andrea asked.

"Wild A killed herself," Milton said.

Andrea knew better than to ask Milton why the woman might have chosen to take her own life. He wasn't going to tell her at any rate.

"Am I going to die?" Andrea asked.

"Every precaution possible will be taken against such an event," Milton said.

Andrea swallowed. It was, at least, a little reassuring to know that he hadn't lied. Her death wasn't something he desired out of all of this.

"Did you ever meet her?" Andrea asked. "It—doesn't have to do with the project," she added quickly. "Just a question. Did you ever meet Wild A?"

"I saw her twice," Milton said. "Once when she was alive. We weren't introduced because Wild A wasn't allowed interaction with anyone except Kreegan, her keepers, and a select few that Kreegan chose for the parameters of his project. I saw her again when she was dead. Her— _remains_ —were shown for public viewing. Some were preserved and are kept for scientific purposes."

"She was studied after death, too?" Michonne asked. Milton didn't have to respond. His demeanor gave away the answer. "And you're _sure_ you don't intend to kill Andrea?"

"I'm certain that I have no intention to study Andrea or any other Wild posthumously," Milton said. "It's unnecessary if the project goes according to plan. If the project fails, there will be ample opportunity to study Wilds posthumously. Now—I have to go to bed. You'll call for a guard to see you home."

As the final word on things, Milton left the room without saying a single thing more to any of them. All of them waited until they heard the door upstairs close—closing Milton into his private spaces of the house—to even look at one another.

"I don't feel like I know too damn much more than I started with," Daryl admitted.

"I feel better," Andrea said. She noticed everyone staring at her. "I _do_ ," she said. "At least I know that I'm not going to _die_. That's a relief to me if it doesn't matter to any of you...and..."

She stopped and shrugged.

"And we know that the project really is meant to get us our freedom," Carol said. "We don't know entirely how that's meant to be achieved, but we know—it's going to get us freedom."

"We just have to play by the rules," Michonne said. "That's what they keep telling us. Play by the rules. Be good. Be human. Be positive and..."

"And have babies," T-Dog said. "I still want to know why the kids matter so damn much."

"Milton's not going to tell us any more than he's already told us," Andrea said. "Not right now. I don't know Milton that well, but I know him better than any of you do. I can tell when he's not going to give anymore and he's done. But—that doesn't mean that he won't tell us later. I just have to—jump through his hoops. The more ground I cover, and the more ground we all cover, the closer we come to getting more information."

"What's the ground we gotta cover?" Daryl asked. "He didn't even tell us that."

"Because we already know it," Michonne said. "Go to work when they tell you to go to work. Get along with everybody. Love your life here if anybody asks and—have your babies. Grow families."

Daryl sighed and Andrea saw him wrap an arm around Carol's shoulders and pull her into him. It looked like the most natural action ever. It looked like they'd been married for years—and Carol responded by sinking into him and somewhat rubbing her face against him.

"We do what we gotta do," Daryl said. "Just—keep doing what we're doing."

Andrea hummed in agreement.

It was all that she could do. It was all that any of them could do. They had to simply keep doing what they were doing—learning as they reached each bend in the road where they were going next—and they had to keep their eye on the prize of freedom that they were promised was at the end of it.

She trusted Milton, but she wasn't foolish enough to believe that the story he'd shared with them wasn't just the tip of the iceberg. They had to keep going and every one of them—herself included since she'd almost fallen to it once—just had to be strong enough not to end up like Wild A and seek their own kind of freedom before the government saw fit to grant them as much.


	52. Chapter 52

**AN: Here we go, another chapter. I'll have more out soon for anyone interested. Real life has taken over for a bit, but I'm working on getting more writing done when I can.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"We'll wait for that to come back," Alice said. "Won't take long. And then we'll decide from there."

"Decide?" Carol asked.

"What comes next," Alice said. "According to the plan I'm following with you, I'll keep you on the hormones until week ten. Just changing them a little. I'll dose you before you go and—probably again in a week."

Carol swallowed and nodded her understanding.

"And if I'm not?" She asked. Doubt, worry, and every other negative emotion that she could imagine was starting to take over her mind for the day.

Alice shrugged her shoulders.

"I'm nowhere near out of ideas," Alice said. "Don't worry about that. But...how do you feel about it? Are you feeling optimistic at least? Because I'm choosing to feel positive about things."

It was Carol's turn to shrug. She didn't want to admit that positive wasn't a word that she'd use to describe herself in any way at the moment. She'd hoped the mood would pass, but it hadn't yet. It only seemed to be intensifying as time ticked on.

"I can't even begin to put together how I feel right now," she admitted. She knew the answer wasn't a clear one, but nothing about her feelings felt clear right now.

"But you want this?" Alice asked, ignoring what she'd started to do on her computer for the moment.

"The baby?" Carol asked. Alice nodded. "I want to have a baby with Daryl. And he wants to have a baby with me. It's everything else I'm not sure about."

"Don't worry about everything else right now," Alice said. "You two want this baby and that means that, one way or another? We're going to make it happen."

"And then what happens?" Carol asked. Alice cocked an eyebrow at her. "When the baby happens? _Then_ what happens? I have a daughter that could be out there, lost somewhere without—without even an _identity_. And everyone is so _inept_ that the government we're supposed to trust, the government that we _have_ to trust, can't even find her? So what happens to me? What happens to the baby?"

Alice closed her eyes and held them shut long enough that Carol wasn't sure what she should do—if she should do anything at all. Finally, the woman opened her eyes and shook her head gently at Carol.

"The government might know where your daughter is," Alice said. "I can't promise you that they don't."

"Then why won't they just tell me the truth?" Carol asked. "I just want to know if she's alive or she's dead. Really know. Once and for all."

Alice nodded her head and rolled her chair back to sit in front of her computer. She waved at Carol.

"Come here," she said, stressing the words when Carol didn't move or respond to the waving motion. "I want to show you something." Carol slid off the exam table and walked over to where Alice was sitting, looking at her computer. On the screen there was some sort of form, but Carol was unfamiliar with the program—she hadn't really examined anything on a computer since the world had crashed and taken technology, as she knew it, with it. Alice pointed to the screen. "This is your profile," she said. "I brought it up when I scanned your chip. See? It's open. That's so I can enter in what happened here today. I keep a record of everything. This is an active form. But when I click here? You can see that it goes to this profile. This is what any of us see when we bring up your information. Everything's here. Everything we have. You were tagged 8294F by White Hills Captivity Force. That doesn't even exist anymore. You were brought in with all these prisoners. See? That's the list of everyone captured that day. Some of them are italicized. That means they've been recorded as deceased and their profiles are inactive."

"They're dead?" Carol asked. Alice hummed.

"You came in with WB639," Alice said. "Your daughter. Wild Born, capture 639 of living Wild Born Children. Her profile, you see, is open. She's not marked as deceased."

"So she's not dead?" Carol asked.

Alice shrugged and clicked on the profile that she claimed belonged to Sophia. Unlike Carol's profile, which populated with what appeared to be pages and pages of information, Sophia's profile was blank.

"I don't know," Alice said, gesturing at the screen. "Your profile is up to date and complete. Everything that's happened to you—good or bad—has been recorded there. I can pull up all your reports. Your daughter? Her profile is clean. I don't know if nothing was ever recorded, if it was wiped clean, or if there's something that blocks me out of her profile for whatever reason. If you look here..." Alice pulled up another profile. "This is Andrea. LC456F."

"You keep her profile open all the time?" Carol asked. Alice hummed again.

"I have to be ready to deal with anything that comes through about her. Milton can call me any time, night or day, and I have to be ready to give him the information that he needs. The point is that her son? His profile is exactly the same as Sophia's. All the children's profiles are exactly the same as Sophia's."

"So you think it's a record keeping mistake?" Carol asked.

"I _think_ that I don't have access to their profiles. That's what I think," Alice said. "I think that the government thinks it's none of my business. I'm not employed to deal with the children. I'm employed to deal with prisoners. Samirah doesn't have access either. Or, at least, she has the same view as I do."

"Why?" Carol asked. "Why wouldn't she have access?"

"Her concern is rehabilitation of prisoners," Alice said. "Not Wild Born children or Wild Capture children. We're not hiding information from you. We don't have it. I mean—don't get me wrong. Enough people around here lie about everything that I wouldn't believe it's raining if you don't look out the window, but that's outside of this project. We're—actually trying to do things differently. We're trying to treat you all like _people_. Like humans. Because we believe that—if you're treated like people? Then this strange thing will happen where you'll act like people. You'll _be_ people."

"Because Kreegan said we were animals," Carol pointed out. Alice's expression told her that she was surprised to know that Carol knew about Kreegan, but she didn't say anything. She neither confirmed nor denied Carol's assertion. "What happens to the children that we have here?"

"You keep them," Alice said. She sighed. "Short of drawing pictures in the dirt? I don't know how the hell else to explain this to you. Act like a human? The project is a success? Keep the kid. Don't? And it all goes belly up. The project shuts down, the Wilds are exterminated in prisons and hunted in the wild just like the remaining Dead. The kids go to government funded orphanages." She minimized the profiles she'd been playing in and pulled Carol's back up to the front. It was waiting for further information to be input. Then Alice stood up and ran her fingers through her hair. "Look, Carol, we'll keep looking for information for you. For all of you. But for the time being? You've got to focus on the now. The what the hell is right in front of us all because none of the rest is going to matter if this project falls through."

"The baby," Carol said. "I've got to focus on—the baby."

Alice nodded.

"And _your_ life," Alice said. "What do you want out of it? Out of this? Start working toward that now. You and Daryl want a baby together. That's a great start. So how do you want to have a baby together? What do you want that experience to be like for you? You have some choice in the matter, all you have to do is let me know what you want out of the whole experience."

Carol returned to the table and hopped up to use it as a seat. She laughed to herself to consider that any of them had anything that even remotely resembled free will. She shook her head at Alice.

"It doesn't feel like I can have anything I want," Carol said. "It feels like a foreign concept. I keep expecting someone to show up at the door and say that Daryl and I can't be together. That—if I'm not pregnant? He has to be with someone else. I've got to go somewhere."

"Not gonna happen," Alice said. "Everyone here is partnered up anyway. You can stop worrying about it. Think about the good things. Like—is he going to be really excited about the baby?"

Carol shrugged.

"As excited as I think any of us even know how to feel these days," Carol confirmed. "It's hard to feel excited when everything feels so out of your control."

"Bit by bit, you're getting the control back," Alice said. "So focus on that."

"You know I was married before all of this," Carol said. Alice nodded. "He wasn't really thrilled about Sophia. If this was that world? I'd be excited just to think what it might be like to have a baby with someone who—who _wanted_ it."

"Why can't you have that in this world?" Alice asked. "What's stopping you from having that experience? Because that's what's going to happen. You decide, though, how you live it. No one will stop you from—celebrating it. From being happy or excited or whatever you want to be. You're the only one that'll take that away from you. And years from now? When this is just a memory? I bet you'll look back and wish you hadn't taken that happiness away from yourself because you were worried about things that you were making up and—really? Things that you couldn't change anyway."

Carol laughed to herself.

"It doesn't feel like there's any surprise here. I told him I was coming here for the test. He asks me every day if I'm pregnant. It's just a yes or a no and that's that."

"And you think that was ever any different?" Alice asked. "No matter what, there's usually a little loss to the surprise factor once you're _trying_ to have a baby. The excitement isn't in the element of surprise, it's in—finally getting the _yes_."

"I would be having a baby with the man that I don't even have a word for beyond saying he's my _mate_ because that's all that anyone calls him," Carol said. "Like I'm a—dog or something and I've chosen someone to have a litter of puppies with."

Alice laughed at that.

"Yeah, well—and the woman I've lived with since I was eighteen is the love of my life. But I've called her my partner most of my life like we play tennis together or like—we're opening up a business. You can call it what you want in the privacy of your own home and, if you're lucky, eventually everyone else will come around to accepting the title you've given each other too. For the moment? You're mates." There was a knock at the door and Alice shuffled her feet across the floor to go and open it as though her feet suddenly weighed a great deal more than they usually did. "It's the hormones, Carol," Alice said. "They bring you swinging from one direction to another like a pendulum. Right now? You've swung toward the negative. Try to swing it back, though, it's better for everyone." She opened the door and reached out, collecting the paper offered to her. She thanked whoever was outside and came in without looking at the documents in her hand. She walked over and leaned against the edge of her desk, the paper wadded in her hand.

"Aren't you going to look at it?" Carol asked.

"What do you want it to say?" Alice asked.

"I just want to know what it _does_ say," Carol said.

"And we'll know that soon enough, but what do you want it to say?" Alice asked.

"You know what I want it to say," Carol responded.

"And if it says that?" Alice asked. "How are you going to tell Daryl?"

"You know I don't know that," Carol said. "I guess—I'll just _tell_ him."

"Don't sound so damn glum about it," Alice said. "Make it special. Or—if you can't make it special? At least make it a happy moment. With that look on your face? I'd believe you think there's a firing squad waiting just outside the door."

"My stomach makes me feel like there is," Carol admitted. "My nerves make me feel like there is." She sucked in a breath. She knew that Alice was right. She swung back and forth—one direction or another—these days and she was in a slump. It had started when they'd walked her to work and she'd started thinking about the test. If she was honest with herself? It had started because she'd begun to convince herself that it would be negative—and that every test she ever took would be negative. She was mentally digging herself a hole and she honestly had no one to blame for it except herself. Daryl hadn't done anything. Alice hadn't done anything. The government hadn't even done anything. Carol was the only one that was actively digging her negative little hole down to the center of herself. And she was likely the only person that was going to be capable of getting herself out of it. "If it's positive? I'll put on a happy face. I'll come up with some way to at least be positive about it when I tell Daryl."

"But it's what you want," Alice said. "You should want to be positive about it."

"And I will be, eventually," Carol confirmed. "But right now—I'm just not sure if I can feel good about anything."

Alice nodded and glanced around the room like she didn't know the office like the back of her hand. Then she looked back at Carol.

"And if it's negative," Alice said, "then you change your whole fucking outlook, you hear me? Because—we've got other options and your positivity is going to go a long way with things."

"You really believe that?" Carol asked. "As a doctor—you believe that the outlook is that important?"

"I believe that attitude gets us just about everywhere we're going," Alice said. She straightened out the paper in her hand and sighed deeply enough that Carol accepted the answer without having to hear it. Alice looked at her and shook her head and Carol's stomach turned a little in response. "I guess—I'm just not going to get the chance to try my other ideas right now. Not with you, at least."

Carol furrowed her brow at Alice and the woman's frown slowly crept into a half smile. She lowered her eyebrows at Carol.

"That feeling? The relief? Hold onto that. It'll remind you that things could be worse while you're contemplating the tragedy of not having your picture perfect announcement," Alice said.

"You mean I'm pregnant?" Carol asked. Alice nodded her head. " _Really_ pregnant?"

"I mean your HCG levels are every bit as high as I've seen them," Alice said. "And then some. You're as pregnant as you can be. And—you're taking the rest of the day off. I'm not going to have you moping around here and disturbing my other patients and you've got some planning to do."


	53. Chapter 53

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Carol had pocketed Alice's "pass" to go to the warehouse and pick out baby things. She'd pocketed it and allowed herself to be escorted back to her house instead. She figured that she could pull it out later and use it when she was feeling more joyous about the occasion. In the old world, shopping had always been something she'd enjoyed, but she had to be in a certain mood to want to pick out anything special. Otherwise, it just ended up being something she grumbled her way through and did grudgingly.

In her house, Carol had found the few baby items that Samirah had given her as a congratulatory "gift" for the fictional child that she'd lost. She'd put them in the extra room that was supposed to become a nursery and she'd ignored their presence. Once she sorted through them again, though, she'd sat down and spent far longer than necessary simply trying to figure out a way that she could use them to tell Daryl about the pregnancy that would be exciting for him—or at the very least, _nice_.

All she'd successfully done, though, was work herself up into a worse state than the one she'd been in before. She couldn't come up with a nice way to tell Daryl about the baby. There wasn't any surprise to it and she wasn't certain that there would be any excitement. He'd know that she went to take the test and he'd be expecting an answer. It was a simple "yes" or "no" and that was that. They'd go to dinner at the dining hall and there wouldn't be any more to it.

It made Carol irrationally upset to think about the fact that it probably wouldn't feel special to him. And from there? She hadn't needed much help working herself up over every other possible outcome related to the scenario. Despite the fact that they'd talked about it, and both of them had agreed that even if Wave Thirty Three didn't exist they'd still want this child together, Carol had begun to convince herself that Daryl might not even care.

It might just be doing their duty. And a sense of duty, at the moment, robbed the whole thing of its magic.

Carol scolded herself for her feelings and washed her face two different times in cool water. She reminded herself that her emotions were nothing more than the festering negativity that had crept into her when she'd barely woken.

Later, it would all look different. Later she'd be happy because something she'd wanted—something she'd gone so far as to pray for when she'd given up praying some time ago—had come to pass.

And though they didn't talk about what it might really mean if they broke it down, she wanted to be the mother to Daryl's child and he wanted to be the father to her child.

And that child, now, was in existence—no matter how fragile it might be.

Her seething negativity aside, this was a wanted child and a joyous occasion. But Carol couldn't come up with any way to make herself believe that enough to make it so for Daryl.

When Daryl got home, Carol was sitting at their little table, her head on her hand, waiting on him. She watched him as he said good evening to whoever had walked him home and stood at the door—as was their odd custom—to hear the lock engaged. Immediately, he pulled his shirt over his head. He'd been doing dirty labor all day and the contrast between the skin hidden by the shirt and the skin exposed to the dirt made it look like, shirt in hand, Daryl was wearing a flesh-tone colored shirt in its place.

He walked toward Carol, pushing his unruly hair out of his face with his hands—hair that she hadn't gotten around to trimming for him yet. He stopped before he walked past her toward the bathroom, undoubtedly headed for a shower.

Daryl chewed his lip and furrowed his brow at her. He shrugged his shoulders.

"Don't matter, right?" He asked, his voice softer than usual. "Just one thing. One plan. But we got others. She's got others. It ain't over yet."

Carol looked at him and her mouth fell open slightly. She hadn't expected him to take, just from looking at her, an answer to a question that he hadn't asked. She'd expected him to need an explicit answer and, maybe, even a reminder of the question that he needed to ask. She didn't realize that her negativity might be so obvious on her face that he might take it as an answer.

"No," she stammered out, not quite finding the words that she wanted.

"Could be me," Daryl said. "Just as much as it's you. But—she ain't lied yet. There's next month. We just—keep practicing in the meantime. You took a shower yet?"

Carol shook her head.

"No, Daryl," Carol said, meaning to tell him that he'd misunderstood entirely. She didn't get anything else out, though, before Daryl spoke again and interrupted her. He leaned toward her and pushed at her arm.

"Come on then," Daryl said. "Shower with me. I'm filthy but—I can rinse off first."

Carol let him help her to her feet like she was incapable of standing on her own, and she even let him guide her a few short steps in the direction of the bathroom, but finally she stopped him and interrupted their progress.

"Daryl—I meant _no_ , that's not what happened," Carol said. He stopped and looked at her with the furrowed brow again. He was due some confusion and uncertainty. Carol couldn't blame him a bit for it. "I did go to Alice today but—I'm pregnant. She doesn't have to have any other plan because we don't need it. At least, not right now."

"Not right now?" Daryl asked, his brow no less wrinkled.

"Well, I mean—if everything goes well," Carol said. "If we don't have some kind of tragedy as some kind of karma payment for pretending what we did."

"That could happen?" Daryl asked.

Carol wasn't entirely sure if he was referring to whether or not she could lose a baby or if he was referring to her suggestion that it might be some kind of punishment doled out to them by the universe.

"I could lose it," Carol said. "Of course I could. It's—possible. If it weren't possible, then we wouldn't have been able to pull it off with the fake pregnancy. Nobody questioned it because it _happens_."

Daryl shook his head at her and immediately Carol felt very sorry for him. He must be feeling overwhelmed. He had to be. She'd taken the poor man on an emotional rollercoaster ride that was even worse than the one she'd been on. Hers had been mostly straight down, with a few bumps upward here or there, but Daryl hadn't had that luxury. She'd taken him, in such a short period of time that he was still standing there holding his dirty shirt in his hand, from disappointment to acceptance of that disappointment. Then she'd redirected him toward some hope, and finally she'd slapped him in the face with harsh reality and possible tragedy.

And he responded by simply staring at her—seemingly afraid to react in any way lest he be forced to change his mind again.

"I'm sorry," Carol said. "I'm so— _so_ sorry. This wasn't at all how I wanted this to play out."

"So—you are pregnant, or you aren't?" Daryl asked.

Carol nodded her head.

"I am," she said. Relief didn't wash over his features immediately.

"But there's something wrong with it?" Daryl asked.

Carol shook her head in response.

"No," she said. "I mean—I don't actually know. But there's nothing that I know of. It's really too early for us to know anything besides the fact that I'm pregnant. The rest comes later."

Daryl chewed at his lip like he was trying to work a piece of skin loose while he worked through the jigsaw puzzle that Carol had presented him with instead of the happy announcement she'd been trying to plan for most of the day.

"Is there something wrong with you?" Daryl asked.

"I'm fine," Carol said.

"Then why are we losing the baby?" Daryl asked.

Carol almost laughed. She covered her mouth. Suddenly her mood felt oddly elevated from what it had been. Poor Daryl was about as confused as anybody could be at the moment—almost seeming afraid to commit to an opinion about the situation—and Carol couldn't help but think how terribly sorry she was that she'd let him get into that state because she couldn't control her own emotions. And she couldn't help but think—and it was this feeling that brought the smile to her face—that he was such a _wonderful_ man because, when the confusion was finally removed, he wouldn't likely be mad at her for causing it in the first place.

"We're not," Carol said, shaking her head. "We're not. We're not losing it. I just meant that it was possible, but it's not guaranteed. It's not really even likely. It's just a possibility. It's a worst case scenario." Finally there was some sign of relief on Daryl's face, but he remained rigid like he didn't trust it just yet. Carol wrapped her arms around him, pulling herself against his chest. "I'm so sorry," she said. "I wanted to have a wonderful way to tell you so that you'd—be _happy_. And I did the exact opposite."

Daryl moved a hand and patted Carol on the back, but he didn't say anything for a moment.

"You're pregnant and everything's alright?" Daryl asked finally. Carol hummed. She could hear his heart thundering in his chest. Maybe she'd dragged him through more thoughts than she'd even imagined. "But you weren't happy when I came in."

"Because I didn't know how to tell you," Carol said.

"'I'm pregnant' could've pretty much covered it," Daryl pointed out.

"I wanted it to be exciting for you," Carol said. "And—there's not much exciting about this."

Daryl laughed.

"I'm pretty damn excited," he said. "You ran through that shit like a t.v. that had a button stuck on the remote. I feel like I just watched a great white shark eat someone from Little House on the Prairie while they was on the Enterprise."

Carol laughed at him and pulled herself off of him. He was smiling. He looked relieved, more than anything, but he was smiling.

"Shower?" Carol asked. Daryl nodded and she pulled him toward the bathroom. She started the water in the shower and he stood there and stared at her. "You might want to take your clothes off," Carol offered, stepping away from the shower and stripping out of her own clothes. Daryl snapped back into the moment and nodded his head while he worked his way out of his. Carol let him step into the shower first and rinse himself under the warm water before she followed after. "Better?" She asked.

"Are you?" Daryl asked. "You looked about as low as a body could get when I walked in that door."

"It's not the pregnancy. At least—it's not _about_ the pregnancy. I've just been down all day," Carol said. "And—it's just gotten worse as the day has gone on. But really, I'm happy. I mean this is what we wanted. It's—what you wanted too, right?"

Daryl nodded his head only slightly and then he dipped his head back to rinse the shampoo out of his hair that he'd worked into a lather. Carol left him to finish and feel satisfied that it was clean and that the suds wouldn't run into his eyes. When he tipped his head back up, shaking a little of the water out in an almost canine fashion, Daryl dropped a hand and grazed his fingertips over Carol's stomach, not far below her breasts.

"So—that's it?" Daryl asked. "I mean there's a baby and—it's there now?"

Carol bit her lip, the oddly warm sensation that had flowed over her earlier returning, and she nodded her head and hummed at him. She could tell him that where he was touching wasn't entirely accurate, but she chose, instead, to simply enjoy the feeling of his fingertips brushing her skin. She chose, instead of correcting him, to take the gentle touch as what it was and to enjoy what it meant. The tenderness to his touch, and the soft look of something akin to adoration on his face, meant more than anything he might have _said_ at the moment.

"That's it," Carol said. "Now we just— _wait_. Wait for it to grow. Wait for what's next."

Daryl had been staring at her while he touched her, but he dropped his hand and brought his eyes to meet hers now. The expression, though, didn't leave his features entirely. It was, Carol thought, much nicer than the look of absolute bewilderment that she'd caused him earlier.

"You feel different?" Daryl asked.

Carol considered the question for a moment. She wasn't entirely sure what he might be referencing—what feeling he might think she _ought_ to have that he wanted confirmed—but she did feel _different_. Even if it wasn't what he had in mind, there was something there that felt different inside of her. Something that had changed a little, even, in the past few moments. She smiled at him and nodded her head.

"I do," Carol said. A quick hint of a smile flitted across Daryl's lips. "Wash, Daryl," Carol said. "Let's go to bed?"

"Early," Daryl responded. "Still got supper."

Carol swallowed.

"We'll call and have it delivered," she responded. "Tell them—we've got a lot to celebrate."


	54. Chapter 54

**AN: Here we are, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111

They would be coming soon to deliver dinner. Enough time had passed that they had to be getting close to the hour when, "take-out orders" being delivered before anyone sat down to eat, those in charge of delivering them would start going door to door.

Carol lie curled up next to Daryl in the bed and closed her eyes against the sensation of his fingertips making short trips across her skin before they turned and started off in another direction.

She had lived in so many worlds in her lifetime, and each of them was very different from the one before. She could have convinced herself, actually, that she'd gone so far as to live on different planets or that, somehow, she'd time-warped and ended up in eras that were completely different—skipping around from place to place like she was caught in the television that Daryl had mentioned earlier that couldn't help but constantly change its channel.

This world that she now called "home" was no less different than any that she'd lived in before.

But even with all their differences, there were some things that seemed to remain inherently the same across all the worlds. People, for instance, always seemed to somehow remain the same, even if that wasn't saying much for the human race.

So Carol naturally wondered if, among things that didn't really change much, there remained the practice of men, standing around on their breaks at work, discussing their sex lives with each other. It could easily happen here—everyone freely given a mate and procreation made nearly a requirement for life—and Carol wondered if the times had changed enough to take away that trait.

And if it did still happen, did Daryl put on a show about being hyper-masculine in the bedroom? Or was he honest enough to admit that, sometimes, he was the one who pressed Carol into the calm and quiet moments like these where he asked her not to leave the bed even though the sweat was already drying on the damp sheets around them?

Carol wouldn't dare to ask him, though, because she didn't want to embarrass him. She might not be the one who often asked for the quiet and gentle moments, but she enjoyed them immensely. She wouldn't do anything to change them.

Daryl's fingers reached Carol's stomach and tickled the skin there, sending a shiver through her body. She rolled onto her back and looked at him. She couldn't help but smile at him when he greeted her with his own smile and a slight tinge of pink ran across his face.

"Sorry," he said quietly. Carol laughed to herself.

"Don't be," she said.

The offending hand that had tickled her rested on her now, its travels done for the moment, and Carol put her hand over Daryl's. The magic that she felt would be gone from the pregnancy—the wonder of it all robbed by the obligation of it—was still there. It was there for Daryl, at least, and Carol was finding it contagious. She moved his hand, pushing it gently with her own.

"This is more where the baby is," Carol said softly, patting Daryl's hand once she had it in place. "Before? That's more where dinner will be once I've eaten it."

She laughed to herself and Daryl's face blushed a little darker pink.

"To tell the truth?" Daryl offered, not moving his hand. "I don't know much of nothing about it. I've never even been close to a pregnant woman that I knew well enough to—well, to even care. My knowledge of it extends from how you get pregnant...and that didn't even include all of what we did...to the fact that you get fat when the baby gets bigger...to the fact that nine months later it finally gets born. I know—you're supposed to be crazy and eat a lot and yell at me, too." He laughed at his own checklist of all the things that summed up pregnancy for him.

"It's a good place to start," Carol said. "Maybe I can—I can help fill in some of the blanks for you? As we go along? I've been here before."

Daryl's smile dropped slightly and Carol wished she could take the comment back entirely. She didn't want to ignore Sophia's existence, but at the moment she wanted nothing more than the pleasant expression on Daryl's face and the warmth of what was right here, right now. She wanted, just for a few moments, to remain safe and comfortable in that warmth.

"I know," Daryl offered. Carol shook her head gently, trying to erase her own comment.

"Anything you want to ask me?" Carol asked, trying to steer the subject back away from things that made them aware of the negativity of their world.

Daryl sucked in a breath and glanced around like he was seriously considering the question. He shook his head gently.

"Now I know where it is," he said. "I know—it's too early to know anything about it. I guess—if it's too early to know anything about it then it's too early to ask questions. But—when I think of something? I'll let you know."

Carol rubbed Daryl's fingers with her own and he played back with her, catching her fingers between his.

"Did you ever think about it?" Carol asked. "Before? Having kids?"

"I mean—I thought about it," Daryl said. "But not like in serious...I mean not like really being serious. Just thought about it, you know? Like you think this could happen but you don't really think about it."

Carol hummed her understanding.

"Would you want—a boy or a girl?" She asked. "Now that you're thinking about it seriously."

Daryl hummed and shook his head.

"Boy or girl, it don't matter to me," Daryl said. "Besides—I know _less_ about babies than I know about pregnant women. They cry, they eat, they piss and shit. I guess I got a lot to learn all the way around before this one gets born."

Carol laughed to herself and didn't allow the game between their hands to end.

"I think you've got a pretty solid foundation to start with," she said. "We'll work on it from there."

Daryl dipped his head and nuzzled the side of her face and Carol turned to meet him, accepting the kiss that he offered. When he broke away from it, she lifted her head enough to return the nuzzle in her own way and he came back, offering another kiss. He broke the game between their fingers and pressed his palm, warmth spreading over her skin, against the spot she'd directed him to as the baby's most likely location.

"When do we know something?" He asked. "Like if the baby's healthy or if—it's a boy or a girl? How long does all that take?"

Carol sucked in a breath and considered it.

She could tell Daryl that the baby—the thing that he was at least mildly fascinated with—was so small at the moment that it was probably only a clump of their rapidly combining cells. She could tell him that, were he to see it, he wouldn't know what he was even looking at. He certainly wouldn't recognize it as the miniscule version of an already formed baby that he seemed to be seeing in his mind.

But she wasn't going to tell him all that. Because telling him that could break the magic, and she didn't want to take that away from him. His way of seeing things was nicer. His way of seeing things was the way that Carol _wanted_ to see them.

"Well," she said, "it'll be a few weeks before we know much about the baby. We'll probably hear its heartbeat when it's big enough to hear it. But—I think that no news is good news until then. It's just growing. Getting bigger. But—it's going to be a while before we find out if it's a girl or a boy. Alice will let us know, I'm sure. But that'll be a while. We might not even find out until it's born."

Daryl shrugged his shoulders gently.

"Doesn't really matter, does it?" He asked.

Carol shook her head.

"No," she said, offering him a soft smile. "It doesn't really matter." She didn't bother telling him that, in a world gone by, it had mattered very much to the man that she'd been married to—and he hadn't been pleased with the daughter she'd given him.

Instead of shadowing things with negative memories, Carol kept quiet. They fell back into the comfortable silence for a few moments and their thoughts were allowed to roam where they would at will. Working with Alice, Carol knew that reports of pregnancies were popping up around them nearly everywhere. There were some that were over almost as soon as they'd been announced, but there were other people within Woodbury that were doing their _civic duty_ and growing children for the advancement of the population. They had limited interaction with each other, mostly only allowed freedom at meals where they had to focus mostly on eating because they were moved in and out in shifts so that everyone got a plate while the food was relatively warm. Carol wondered how many women, across Woodbury, could say that they were as happy with their so-called mate as she felt with Daryl. How many women, across Woodbury, could say that they'd have wanted their child without even the pressure that was put on them to have one?

"When the baby is born," Carol said quietly, almost hating to break the silence around them, "you're going to hold my hand?"

"What?" Daryl asked.

Carol smiled to herself. She didn't know if he hadn't heard her clearly or if he hadn't understood the question.

"When I have the baby," Carol said. "Will you hold my hand? Or will you—tell Alice that you don't want to be there?"

The noise that Daryl made was unidentifiable beyond simply being _a noise_. He took her hand, though, holding it like he was responding to the question with some practice of the action.

"I'ma be there," he said. "My kid too, right? So why wouldn't I be there?"

"And you'll hold my hand?" Carol asked. She looked at him and he was staring at her in the way that he sometimes did when he wasn't sure what else to say or do and so looking at her was his only response. "Because it's going to hurt. You know that, right? So—are you going to hold my hand?"

The corners of his lips turned up slightly.

"If that's what you want me to do," he said, squeezing her fingers.

"Good," Carol said. "You make me feel better."

Daryl laughed.

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" Daryl asked.

Carol wasn't sure exactly what it might mean. It could mean a lot of things, but she wasn't exploring all of the possible meanings just yet. For now, it meant exactly what she'd said—nothing more and certainly nothing less.

"You make me feel better," Carol repeated. "Whether it was holding my hand in the taming pens or—even just today. I had a terrible day today. I just felt _bad_ all day. Heavy. Like everything was just _doomed_ from the moment I woke up. But then you just came home and you were just—you just made me feel _better_."

"I didn't do anything," Daryl said, some amusement in his voice.

"Maybe that's the point," Carol said. "You didn't _have_ to do anything. Just being here. Just being you. It made me feel better. It's not something you do. It's you that—that just makes me feel better."

Daryl moved his body like he was responding to some outside stimuli—maybe an itch that made a muscle jump or something he heard or smelled that was out of the ordinary. Then he left Carol, pulled away, and went to the edge of the bed. She rolled to watch him as he put his pants on.

"I said something wrong?" Carol asked.

"You didn't hear 'em knock?" Daryl responded.

Carol hadn't heard anything, least of all a knock.

"No," she said.

"I think they knocked," Daryl said. "Dinner. I'll go get it. You just wait here. You stay right here."

Daryl got up from the bed and Carol could tell that he was at least a little agitated. He carried himself a little more tensely than usual. He could say that he was just going to get dinner—dinner that would be there soon if it wasn't waiting now—but something had stirred him up. Maybe it was what she said. Maybe she shouldn't have told him that he made her feel better. Or maybe it was something else that was simply related to all the excitement of the day. After all, even though she'd thought that pregnancy—and everything that came with it—wouldn't be exciting to Daryl, it clearly was.

"Daryl," Carol called, just as Daryl reached the doorframe of their small bedroom. He stopped, catching the frame in his hand, and turned back to her. "I didn't say anything wrong, did I?"

He offered her a half-smile, but it was as genuine as any smile that Daryl ever gave her. He shook his head quickly from side to side and hummed in the negative.

"No," he said. "I'ma get dinner. You just—stay right here and do whatever it is that—you just stay right here."

Carol offered him a smile of her own, nodded at him, and watched as he accepted it and returned to his mission to get their food. She heard, just as he'd disappeared from her sight, the sound of the door opening and the rustling of the bags that they'd bring the food in. Daryl hadn't lied—he'd heard something that she simply hadn't heard. He'd be back, soon, with the food in hand—delivered to her in bed. Then, without a doubt, they'd sit in their bed and eat together in the comfortable silence.

It was, in a world maybe not so entirely unlike any other world that Carol had ever known, the most natural thing in the world.


	55. Chapter 55

**AN: Here we go, another chapter.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111

They'd woken to the phone ringing and Michonne had reached theirs first. Milton was awake and having coffee in the living room when she'd picked up the receiver. She might have asked him why he hadn't answered it himself, but she already knew how Milton operated. More than likely he knew what the call was about before it came through. The voice on the line was an automated one. The call, Michonne imagined, went out to every house in the community—Woodbury—and it requested that every resident turn on their television sets in fifteen minutes for a special announcement that would be made. Michonne had roused Andrea, forced some dry toast down her throat to try to catch and quell her morning sickness before it got started well, and she'd allowed her a glass of juice while they settled on the couch.

Milton sat in his chair and watched the announcement, but he watched it with little interest. It wasn't news to him. And there wasn't really that much information at any rate.

Samirah gave the announcement on their television screens and it was, like most everything that Michonne had heard these days, full of holes. This day and the next, no one would report to their work posts. They would remain in their homes and meals would be delivered to them as Woodbury underwent some organizational changes. In a short period of time, everyone would be expected to go out on their porches. During that time, they would see the arrival of the newest inmates that were coming to Woodbury. Those inmates, the announcement warned, were from high security prisons and were considered _absolute Wilds_. They were either untamed or, theoretically, untamable. They would be housed in the newest-built portion of the community and all current residents were urged to avoid nearing the fence line once regular activities were under way again.

Though Michonne didn't believe in _wild_ or _non-wild_ , she had to admit that, by the time the announcement went off, the way it had been delivered almost made her afraid of the people that were coming to their community. She could understand, almost instantly, how it was that the government could have made people fear _all of them_ with the right tone of voice and deliverance of a possibly terrifying message.

Once the message was over, Milton got up from his seat and went to open the door. Michonne caught Andrea's hand and they followed after him. He stepped out on their porch first and Michonne stepped out and to the other side to put some space between them. In the street there were already guards that Michonne didn't recognize and they were dressed, head to toe, in something just short of full armor.

"Is that riot gear?" Michonne asked. "Milton?" He nodded his head, but he offered her no spoken response. He was staring down at the guards just the same as she was, but he was relaxed enough to make it clear that none of this was surprising to him in the slightest. "Is that really necessary?"

"They wear riot gear at all times in the high security prisons," Milton said blankly. He looked at Andrea as she eased her way out of the door. "You should stay inside."

"Everyone is supposed to be outside," Andrea protested.

"In the doorway," Milton said, turning back to survey the street again. "It's safer there. Guards from high security prisons are not accustomed to dealing with tamed Wilds. They're not as accommodating as our guards. Were something to happen, being inside would be safest."

Michonne glanced at Andrea and nodded.

"I'm with Milton on this one," Michonne said. "Step back into the doorway, please?"

"If something happens, then something happens," Andrea responded.

"If something happens," Michonne said, more accustomed to dealing with Andrea when she felt the need to prove herself than Milton was, "I'm going to shove your ass back inside the house whether you're in the doorway or out here. If you're in the doorway, it buys both of us time to get inside too."

Andrea took Michonne's comment for what it was worth and did step back into the doorway. She hung out far enough that she could see what was happening and Michonne leaned over the railings a little to be able to see down the street at some short distance.

Samirah came through first, speaking through a loudspeaker that she held to her mouth so that her words came out somewhat muffled, and she repeated some of the message that had been delivered to them inside. They'd be passing through every street in Woodbury with the inmates. Afterwards, everyone was asked to stay in their homes while Woodbury underwent some organizational changes. No one would leave their homes for any reason short of an emergency, and if they should have an emergency they would phone for assistance. They were then informed that they should neither heckle, catcall, nor otherwise try to get the attention of the inmates as they passed through. If they were involved in inciting any kind of trouble, they would be punished accordingly and as equally guilty for the problem as any other Wild involved.

Michonne ignored the involuntary shiver that ran up her spine as the woman walked, repeating her message, out of sight.

Before she saw the inmates whose arrival had been announced, she _heard_ them. Surrounded on both sides and in the front and back by the heavily protected guards, there came a line of five women. Their feet were shackled with enough chain between them to allow them only short steps. Their hands were cuffed behind their backs. Around their necks they wore metal collars that connected each of them to the one before and after them with a chain. The metallic hiss of the chains as they moved rang in Michonne's ears and she closed her eyes for a moment to the pain that the vision in the street caused her.

The women—apparently animals unlike any animal ever imagined—were _humans_. Three of the five looked like they were almost starved to the point of barely being able to carry the weight of their own chains. They were dirty and bruised, some limping even like they were injured, and led along like dogs.

The only thing that Michonne found remarkable about them was that, despite their poor condition, none of them walked with their heads ducked. All of them walked, heads up and shoulders back as much as could be managed, with some sense of determination and maybe even _pride_.

They were not _broken_.

 _And maybe that's what made them so dangerous. Maybe that's what made them so feared. Maybe that's what made them so Wild._

Michonne heard Andrea mutter some kind of muffled declaration of shock and horror behind her and she swallowed down her own feelings. She watched as the slow procession moved forward and past them.

"Why are they marching them through the streets?" Andrea asked, her voice barely audible even from such a short distance.

"To shame them," Michonne said. "To make a show of them. To show all of us what _could_ happen to us."

"Your file said that you were considered for high security, Andrea," Milton said, seemingly unmoved by what he saw. Maybe he'd simply seen it enough that he was numb to the horror.

"Why?" Andrea asked, the word coming out stammered.

"You killed a guard," Milton responded. "That's how many of them ended up there. In the end, though, your file says that they decided you weren't a high level risk once contained."

Michonne glanced at Andrea. Her face showed that she was disturbed by the vision of what might have become of her—something that made even their experiences look pleasant—and Michonne swallowed. She'd killed the guard. Andrea had taken the fall for it. If Andrea had gone there, it would be Michonne who had been responsible for putting her there.

 _But if they'd tried to take Andrea, Michonne would have killed again._

"You said you needed someone close to wild to be Wild A," Andrea said. "To fill my position. Why me? Why not one of them, if they're so wild?"

Milton hummed.

"Because I knew that I would have to live with you," Milton said. "I would have to work with you, live with you, and produce children with you. Some level of taming was desirable. I doubt that I could have lived with any of them. They would have tried to kill me and, in turn, they would have been killed."

Just as the sound of the women's chains was fading out in Michonne's right ear, the sound of chains started up again in her left. The noise stopped the conversation, if it wasn't finished anyway, in its tracks. Milton added nothing else to his response and Andrea didn't ask any more questions. Michonne stared straight ahead at nothing to set herself before she turned to see what was coming next. Five men came, in similar fashion to the women, from the same direction. Their shackles, although similar, were clearly made of heavier chain and they sounded like five Jacob Marleys chained together to carry, for all of eternity, the weight of their mortal sins together.

The men moved faster than the women had, but their physical appearance showed no fewer signs of abuse or malnourishment. Like the women, though, each of them walked with a certain air of ill-fitting pride surrounding them.

Michonne watched in silence as they passed and then she stood, waiting for a sign that it was time to go back inside, gripping the railing of the porch.

"There are only five pairs," Milton said to himself as much as he said it to Michonne or Andrea. "Originally I asked for twenty five pairs. That number has been reduced until there are only five remaining."

"What happened to them?" Andrea asked.

Milton didn't look at her, but he responded to her.

"It was reported to me that they killed each other. Or that they killed themselves," Milton said.

"But you don't believe it," Michonne challenged.

Milton glanced at her, but he didn't respond. He didn't believe it. Michonne didn't believe it either. It was possible that they killed themselves, they certainly had enough reason to do so, and it was possible that they killed each other. It was equally possible, however, that they died from the poor treatment they received or were simply executed by the heavily protected guards that were, no doubt, practically gun shy when it came to the people they were supposed to be guarding.

"Will they be free?" Andrea asked. "One day?"

"Perhaps," Milton said. "I guess it depends."

"They were brought here to be part of the project?" Michonne asked. Milton hummed in response. "They'll be increasing the population too?" He didn't respond. He didn't have to. Living with the man, Michonne was starting to understand Milton's silence almost as well as she understood any words that he said. "Even locked up," Michonne offered, "they'll be better off here than they were."

"When you're allowed to go out," Milton said, seeming to ignore Michonne's statement, "you'll avoid the guards that came with them. Both of you."

"Why?" Andrea asked. "Aren't they hired by the government to be part of the project too?"

"You'll do best to avoid them," Milton repeated, not adding explanation to his statement.

"Is it safe to assume that they might be the type that believes that no one is ever truly not-Wild?" Michonne asked. "And that all Wilds are dangerous, scourges to society?" Milton didn't respond, but she'd expected that. It confirmed, for her, that her suspicions were correct.

"We'll go back inside," Milton said. "You can entertain yourselves. I won't be leaving for work, but I'll be working upstairs. I expect that you can keep things quiet?"

"You want me to let you know when breakfast gets here?" Andrea asked, still blocking the doorway as Milton approached her to go inside. He stopped and nodded. "Nothing happened," she said. "I didn't have to be in the doorway."

"It was a preventive measure," Milton responded. "And would have proved beneficial had something occurred. It was fortunate for all of us that it wasn't really necessary."

"You would care, wouldn't you, Milton?" Andrea asked, still blocking the doorway. "If I got hurt. Would you care?"

Milton wasn't looking at her—at least not directly. Instead he was looking just off to the side of her at the doorframe. Michonne watched his features to see if he might grow frustrated with Andrea—a dance that the two of them seemed to do a good deal—or if he might simply answer her to gain the entry to the house that he wanted.

Michonne, too, was curious as to what Milton might respond to Andrea's question. It was complicated, she knew that, but they both wondered if Milton's growing dedication to the both of them was something that was wholly related to the project—his commitment to science being above everything—or if he might actually be developing some kind of _feelings_ for either of them or for both of them.

 _Did Milton only care about the project and the ramifications of it, or did he actually care for the people involved?_

It was a question that he might never answer—at least not in words.

"Your safety, and the safety of the child, is of the upmost importance to the project," Milton said finally.

"And if there wasn't a project?" Andrea asked.

"There is a project," Milton said. "There's no reason to waste time or energy with hypotheticals. It's time to go inside, Andrea." Finally she backed up, allowed Milton and Michonne to pass back into the house, and Michonne stood beside Andrea while Milton locked the door and checked the lock with three quick twists of the knob. He glanced over both of them with a sweeping motion of his head and then walked toward the stairs, tossing his final words to them back over his shoulder. "I'll need quiet for the morning," he said. "You'll let me know when breakfast arrives."


	56. Chapter 56

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Grady, having headed up the building of the accommodations for the newly arrived inmates, had been invited to watch their arrival. He'd chosen, rather than to stand somewhere with others who were hired for the project, to be the one that came and let Carol and Daryl out of their home to stand on the porch. He'd also chosen to stand _with them_.

Carol was happy to see the young man, as she was most mornings when he came to pick Daryl up while she was still there, because he was simply easy to get along with. He was friendly and polite and, in Carol's opinion, the epitome of a well-raised young man. On the whole, his behavior and demeanor contrasted dramatically with what many would have probably believed to be characteristic about a wild-captured child.

As soon as they'd stepped out onto the porch, Grady had offered Carol a genuine hug and a round of congratulations for the baby. She'd missed him since the announcement had been made and it was his first chance to congratulate her personally. When he told her that Daryl had told him about the baby—and was "pretty damn excited" about it—and told her he hoped that nothing happened like it had before, Carol took it for exactly what it was. He wished them the best. He spoke from the position of someone who genuinely wanted them to have whatever it was that would make them happy, and not as much from the position of what would be good for the project, as some other people might have.

"Will the fence stay up forever, Grady?" Carol asked, while they were waiting for the inmates to come. "Or is it coming down?"

"They don't tell me much," Grady said. "But—I guess I'll know if they decide to take it down. I know where they're coming from, though. These Wilds? They're coming from the big-deal prisons."

"Big deal prisons?" Daryl asked. Grady laughed to himself.

"I know that's not the official name of them or anything," Grady admitted. "But that's what I call 'em. They're real protected. The fence we put up? It should keep 'em in, but it's going to look like freedom to them. There's at least three fences that circle around Overhills. I don't know much about Grady. Three just like the one that's set out there. Two foot apart, maybe. Like if you could get through all that barbed wire you'd have the care to try to shimmy right on up another two fences just like the one you'd just come over instead of layin' in the dirt and just dying wedged between the fences."

"Are they really that dangerous?" Carol asked. Her body involuntarily shivered. The announcement had made her blood run cold just from Samirah's tone of voice. In Region Thirty Three, Carol had seen one or two inmates that passed through that had scared many of them. They'd seemed to have snapped. They didn't care if they lived or died, and they really seemed to want to take some people with them when they finally went. Eventually they died in taming or they were taken out, nobody ever really knew which, but it wasn't before they seemed to feel the need to systematically go around and try to make life more of a living hell for everyone else. Carol had a small scar, just above her eyebrow, that served to remind her of the day that she'd come into contact with one of them that had started a fight with at least a dozen of them in the showers. She hadn't been directly involved in the outbreak of the fight, but in the scuffle she'd ended up injuring her face on the corner of the sinks and earning herself a couple of stitches in the process.

Grady shrugged at the question.

"I don't know 'em personally," he said. "I know—you get in a place like Overhills for being too violent. Murdering guards and non-Wilds. Just—overall being pretty rough, I guess. I used to live not too far from Overhills and, on the roads, about five miles out in every direction, they start with these signs that tell you that you're entering the _Overhills zone_. Like if one of them was to get over the three fences? They figure that five miles is how far it'd take them to get them back locked up again."

"You come over that one fence and can run for three miles," Daryl pointed out, "then you got my respect."

Carol had seen the fence that they'd put up to separate the housing from the rest of the community. It was only chain link, but it was quite high and she suspected it was also electric. The gates were pretty sturdy and the locks certainly were. The barbed wire they were referencing was laid out in one or two feet coils at the top of the fence and Carol wasn't sure how anyone could get over it. She'd have to respect, as Daryl said, anyone who could do it three times and live to tell about it—less likely to run, afterwards, for five miles while a group of heavily armed guards tried to apprehend them.

And the guards, from what she could see, didn't look like they were interested in playing around with any of the prisoners. They stood in the streets, clad in riot gear, with a military stance. They were armed and they were displaying it. Carol could guess that the price for stepping out of line was a bullet to the brain—they wouldn't likely bother with shooting to wound.

"Do you think they're a threat to us?" Carol asked. Her stomach tightened with anxiety over what the prisoners might do, but it also tightened at the thought that her brain offered her immediately.

 _She was afraid of them. Just the same as some of the people there were afraid of her, she was afraid of the new arrivals. There was always the "us" and the "them"._

"Wouldn't be half as scared of them as I would be of the guards," Grady pointed out. "Not you at least. They want to be out of the prison. Want to be free. The guards? See them giving speeches sometimes. They're part of the wild is wild groups. They're the real dangerous ones. There's been open season on Wilds for a long time as far as they're concerned. Wouldn't worry about the Wilds so much—stay outta their way if you see 'em running. But I'd watch out for the guards. I know I do."

"You do?" Daryl asked.

"Wild-captured is still wild," Grady said. "Little wild, lot wild. It don't matter to them that don't like wild at all."

Carol reached and patted Grady's back.

"You're not wild," she said. He shrugged at her.

"Neither are you," Grady said. "But—you can't tell that to someone that don't want to hear it."

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

By the time that Carol actually laid eyes on the new arrivals, her fear for them shifted to something else entirely. Instead of worrying that one of them _could_ become free, she was hoping that all of them _would_ become free. She could assume that the women she saw had walked from the entrance to the community—a decent walk to her house by any standards—and they'd done it carrying the combined weight of the chains and metal constraints that they wore. They dragged their feet, the leading woman almost seeming to pull the others along behind her to their destination while the last in line was harassed by a guard whose profanities could be heard at a longer distance than the shifting metallic sound of the chains. Carol's heart ached for them.

If killing a guard earned them such a fate then it was only for want of a weapon that she'd never ended up in those chains.

They had ended up there the same way that everyone else had ended up in the prisons. The world went mad and forced them to survive. The drive to survive—and perhaps to keep someone else alive—had forced them to do whatever they could do and whatever needed to be done. Their captors had been unkind and there had, more than likely, been fear and pain. And, clearly, there _still was_.

All of them, it was obvious, would need healthcare. They'd need a great number of things to even resemble the people that they must have once been. Carol was sure, working with Alice, that she'd get her chance to meet them one day. And now, rather than fear that possibility, she looked forward to it. Kindness, perhaps, could go a long way.

On her porch, none of them spoke. Samirah had passed, some minutes before the women and their guards, to tell them all that anything that disrupted the procession would land them in hot water. They'd be punished to the full extent of the law for anything they did to cause a problem. They'd chosen to remain silent instead of risking anything that might be misinterpreted.

Carol felt the weight of Daryl's arm around her, hugging her into his body. His only response to the sight of the women walking linked together was to pull Carol closer to him and tighten the hold that he had on her. Her response to him was simply to lean her head against him, long enough to brush her face against his shoulder, before she straightened herself back up and turned to look for the sound of the metal that she could hear, again, moving toward them.

The men came steeped in the same misery as the women. They dragged their feet too, their chains visibly heavier, but they sauntered along. Their final guard, pushing them forward, had a more hands-on approach and reached out every now and again to shove the last in line for what he seemed to see as dawdling. Carol turned her face into Daryl's chest and refused to watch the rest of the procession. She only moved again when she felt Daryl's body jerk and she pulled away to see what had startled him or caused his movement.

He let go of her and rushed to the side of the porch, leaning over it to prolong his view of the passing men. He muttered something and a look came across his face that Carol hadn't seen before—a desperate look, maybe, or maybe it was fear. He'd seen something that spooked him.

"What is it?" Carol asked, crossing to him and being careful to keep her voice low. They'd drawn the attention of Grady and, no less quiet than Carol, he joined them in the tight corner of the porch. "Daryl? What is it?" Carol repeated.

"You OK?" Grady asked, keeping just enough distance between them that it was evident that he thought Daryl might react in some way to whatever was going on inside him.

"Merle," Daryl said.

"What?" Carol asked.

"Merle," Daryl said. "One of those inmates. He looked just like Merle."

Carol knew the name by now. Daryl's brother. He'd been killed at capture. He'd tried to fight, like so many had, for his freedom and he'd been killed. Daryl rarely spoke of him, but when he did mention him, a weight always seemed to come over him. Of anyone he might have lost, it was losing Merle that pressed down on him the most.

Carol put her hand on Daryl's back and rubbed a circle there to remind him that she was there—that she would comfort him if he needed it, and that there was no shame in needing it. Rather than take the comfort, though, Daryl looked at her and shook his head. His eyes were wide.

"That was my brother," he said, confident in his statement. "That was Merle!"

Carol shushed him, reminding him that they might still get in trouble for being loud. He glanced around, took in the location of the guards in the streets, and relaxed. Carol felt his back muscles loosen under her hand.

"I thought he was killed," Carol said quietly. "Remember? Maybe he just resembled Merle."

Daryl shook his head at her.

"They _told_ me he was dead," Daryl said. "But I didn't never seen no body." Carol didn't point out to him that she understood that feeling. Never having proof that someone was gone left it open to believe that they _might not be_. She wasn't going to say it to him, though. Not when he was struggling through his feelings at the moment. Daryl seemed to read her mind, though. He shook his head. "You can think I'm crazy if you want," Daryl said. "But that was my brother. He ain't dead. And—I gotta talk to him."

Carol's stomach rolled at the chance he'd be taking if he were to try to approach the fences without permission or without reason. The guards would never allow it. If he was going to have contact with the man that he thought was his brother—and maybe who truly was his brother—he was going to have to have a _reason_. Nothing, these days, was as easy as simply _doing_ them.

Carol shook her head at him.

"I don't think you're crazy," Carol said. "But—if he's your brother? You have to wait until we can get you there so you don't get in trouble. We've got to do this the right way."

Daryl stared off after where the almost-chain-gangs had gone, but they were gone from their field of vision now even if the sound of the metal and the yelling officers could still quietly be heard. He made a noise that hurt Carol's chest as badly as the sights that she'd just seen, and she moved her hand to squeeze at his shoulder muscle and bring him back to her.

"What the hell is the right way anymore?" Daryl asked.

"I don't know," Carol admitted. "But—Alice might."


	57. Chapter 57

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here. Plenty more to come.**

 **I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"They just leave him fucking hanging up there for half a day!" Alice ranted. "Snarling and snapping. Besides the fact that it's the most disrespectful thing that they could do, they don't even stop to think about how damn dangerous it is! As hard as everyone's worked to get the Dead population under control and if he had fallen in either direction he could have done some damage and started an epidemic right here inside the walls of Woodbury because those assholes wanted to make a show of things."

Carol might have pointed out to Alice that the Wild—who had died after he'd busted out the window in his house, climbed the fence, and essentially gutted himself on the barbed wire at the top where he'd gotten hung—probably wouldn't have done much walking if he'd fallen in any direction, but she realized that wasn't going to make the situation any better. Alice was mad about a number of things and this was simply the one that she was latching onto to let off a little steam.

Carol had seen the man, turned and snarling from his location atop the fence, on her way to work while some of the workers in the community had been trying to figure out how to get him down. Her only relief was that she knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he hadn't been Daryl's brother because he hadn't fit Daryl's description in the slightest. Now the "Pen" was under an even stricter lockdown than it had been and the fence—which Carol had thought might be electric but clearly wasn't—was going to be electrically charged.

They were out from under the community-wide lockdown now and, back to work, Alice and Carol were waiting on the new arrivals. One at a time, accompanied by armed guards, each of the new Wilds would be brought in for Alice to examine. Carol was being allowed to stay, but only under the stipulation that she keep out of the way when Alice told her that was what was best.

If she was lucky, Carol would get the chance to at least see Daryl's brother within the next few days—whenever he might make it in for an examination—and if she was really lucky, she might even get to speak with him.

She hadn't brought it up to Alice yet, though, because she could see that the woman was already dealing with enough frustration over the whole situation.

"They can't treat them like that," Alice said. "They're fucking people. Murderers or psychos or whatever—they're not making it any better. That's why the hell we had to have the sandwiches."

Carol hummed at Alice. The sandwiches. The people at the mess hall had looked at Carol like she was insane when she'd come carrying her orders from Dr. Walker that they provide her with twenty five sandwiches and twenty bottles of water post-haste and before they'd even finished serving breakfast to everyone. But the moment that Alice had been made aware, via a phone call from Samirah, that the inmates hadn't been fed in a day or so, she'd decided that if they got nothing else out of their visit with her they would at least get some food.

"They'll appreciate the sandwiches," Carol said.

"From the looks of them," Alice said, "and this is only from a distance, I would imagine they'd appreciate just about anything. When one of the guards told me they were taking the body out, do you know what he asked me?"

"What?" Carol asked, not wanting to use too many words lest she say the wrong thing.

"He asked me if he should just go ahead and shoot one of the women to keep things even or if I thought that, since they're animals, we could just put them all together and see how things worked out with getting her covered too," Alice said.

"Are they going to shoot her?" Carol asked. Alice narrowed her eyes at her.

"No," Alice said. "They're not going to shoot her. They're not going to do anything with her. Not right now. They're part of the project but Milton doesn't know if they'll really work out or not. We don't know anything about them. We don't even know what being the wildest Wilds really even means. Right now we've got enough houses to keep them all separate and that's what we're doing until we know more."

"So why bring them to Woodbury?" Carol asked. "If they might not work for the project?"

"Because the alternative was death," Alice said. "They're taking every excuse they can find to kill inmates right now. The max prisons are the worst. They'll kill them for chewing with their mouths open. We wanted to move more of them out earlier but—ten is all we could get."

Carol might have pressed for more information, or even broached the subject of Daryl's brother, seeing that Alice was open and ready to speak to her, but they were interrupted with a knock at the door. Rather than waiting for Alice to open the door, a burly guard came in like he was raiding the place. Carol didn't recognize him and assumed he might be one of the ones that came with the new inmates. She backed up a little, out of instinct, and put some distance between herself and the man.

"Got a damn bite!" He barked, practically thrusting his arm at Alice. She immediately went for gloves and then stood in front of him to examine the wound.

"Dead or alive?" Alice asked.

"What?" He asked.

"I'm assuming it was a person who bit you," Alice said. "Were they dead or alive?"

"Alive! One of them damn wild-ass fucking animals. Tried to get her out of the house and she bit me," the officer said. He looked at Carol. He stared at her while Alice was gathering supplies to treat the obviously minor wound. Still looking at her, he grinned. "I hope I knocked every damn tooth she's got loose, too, when I busted her in the mouth for acting like that."

He spat when Alice cleaned the wound—and Carol bit the inside of her cheek because she could tell the woman wasn't being nearly as gentle as she could.

"Whoops," Alice said. "Sorry. Smarts a little. There—that's all it needs. Barely broke the skin. Just—keep it clean. Watch it for infection."

"What if I catch something?" He asked.

"You won't," Alice said.

"She wild?" He asked, gesturing his head toward Carol.

"Not nearly as wild as some of the people I've seen in uniform," Alice responded.

"You hang around with them, you could catch something," the officer informed the doctor.

"Not likely," Alice said. "I've been pissed on, shit on, bitten, and bled on. And the most I've caught is a cold. Are you bringing the woman in?"

"Not getting near that bitch again," the officer said. "Richardson's bringing her in. He's outside."

"All the better," Alice responded. "Watch for infection. You come back and see me if it gets bad."

She turned and rolled her eyes at Carol as the man left the office. Not a full moment later, the door opened again and two more of the new officers came in—one of them Carol assumed was Richardson—each holding one arm of a woman who didn't weigh half as much as either of them. She was shackled, blindfolded, still wearing one of the metal collars around her neck, and fighting around a gag in her mouth—but it was clear that they feared her as she fought against them.

"Is all this necessary?" Alice asked, gesturing at the overkill of the woman's restraints and limitations.

"Blindfold is to keep them disoriented," one of the officers said. "Gag is because she bit someone already. Everything else is standard."

"Oh! So you're our biter!" Alice said, almost sounding pleased with the woman. "Help her to the chair over there, please. I'd like to talk to her before I examine her. You can leave her with me if you want. Wait outside. I'll tell you if I need you."

The officer cleared his throat.

"No ma'am," he said. "Orders are that at least one of us has to stay the whole time."

Alice looked between them.

"Then you stay," she said. "I won't be needing both of you. And neither will she. Inmate—I need you to cooperate, OK? If you'll cooperate, I can promise you that nobody is going to hurt you. We only want to help you, but I've got to examine you."

The officer that was dismissed, who hadn't bothered to speak to any of them yet, took his leave with the same silence that he'd guarded the entire time he'd been present. The other held to the arm of the woman who was, at the moment, standing perfectly still even if she was panting around the gag. Slipping his fingers into her collar to take more control of her, the officer started to lead her to the chair that Alice had indicated and the woman lunged backward, trying to knock him down. Being a great deal smaller than him in any way possible, she did little more than shove him backward. Still, Carol moved into the farthest corner that she could and put greater distance between herself and the possible problem. Alice went directly to her cabinet.

"Hold her," Alice said. "I'll sedate her. I'm sorry. I didn't want to have to do this. I wanted us to do this a much nicer way..."

The sedative started working almost immediately and the officer was able to get the woman into the chair. Alice rolled the small table around that she used in the main part of the office and pulled a chair up to sit near the woman. "You can go have a seat or something now," Alice said. "She's not going anywhere." The officer, Richardson as Carol was calling him in her mind, took Alice up on the offer and moved across the room to sit in a metal chair that made him look like he'd been sent to the corner in kindergarten. Alice waved at Carol and invited her over. It seemed that the woman had given up on fighting for the moment.

Alice moved and carefully slipped her fingers under the blindfold of the woman and the woman fought her as best she could by trying to shake her face from side to side. All that it accomplished, really, was helping Alice to loosen the blindfold. She pulled it away and the woman stared at her and then glanced at Carol.

"If you don't fight," Carol offered, "then we'll help you. I promise. I know—I was there too. I'm tame, but I was wild." She felt she didn't need to point out that, perhaps, they were at different ends of the wildness spectrum if such a thing existed.

"If you can keep yourself from biting anyone," Alice said. "Then I'll take the gag off. Can you not bite me?" The woman looked quickly back and forth between them and Alice posed the question to her once more. Finally, she nodded at Alice. And, true to her nod, she didn't move at all until Alice had removed the gag and pulled her hands away to put some distance between them. "I'll get your hands loose, too," Alice offered. "If you can stay here. But—you should know that if you try to run? That man over there will probably kill you and there's nothing I can do about it. Can I un-cuff you?" The woman offered another nod and Alice got up. Carol watched her as she went and started to argue with the officer over the handcuff keys that he didn't want to give her.

Deciding to make some friends for herself, and figuring the sandwiches were just as much hers to give as anyone else's, Carol got up and got one from the bag she'd brought them in. Immediately it was clear that she had the attention of the woman. She didn't get out of the chair, and probably couldn't have, but she did lean up a little and look at what Carol held in her hand.

"Are you hungry?" Carol asked.

The woman stared at her, mouth open, but couldn't seem to pull her eyes away from the food. If it was true what they said, though, she'd been without food for a day or two, maybe more. Carol glanced at Alice and the officer, both of them locked up in discussion over how to proceed from here and neither of them paying her any attention, and she unwrapped the sandwich.

"Are you hungry?" She repeated, catching the eyes of the woman that she was truly beginning to believe _might be_ wild. The woman nodded. She licked her lips and seemed to realize, from a look that registered on her face, that the corner of her mouth was bleeding. She moved a little in the chair, inching her body closer to Carol and closer to the food. Carol reached for a tissue from Alice's table and, catching it, she gingerly dabbed at the woman's bleeding mouth. Rather than try to bite her, as Carol worried she might, the woman froze and stared hard at Carol. "Your lips are bleeding," Carol said to her. "If you don't try to bite me, I'll feed you this sandwich while they argue about letting you have your hands. Deal? I'll feed you and you won't bite me?"

Carol's new friend nodded enthusiastically at her and Carol offered her the sandwich. Carefully the woman bit the corner off the sandwich. It was clear that she was trying, without being exactly certain where Carol's fingers were, to keep her teeth far from Carol's skin. She almost swallowed what she got whole, though, and Carol's stomach ached at the sight of her. She didn't care if she got bitten—she was suddenly desperate to feed the woman.

"Bite again," she offered, putting the sandwich to the woman's lips. "But don't choke." The woman bit into the sandwich again and Alice approached, tapping Carol on the shoulder and startling her. "She was starving," Carol said.

"That's what the sandwiches are for," Alice offered. "Can I have my seat?"

Carol got up and the woman, open-mouthed, followed Carol's movements. She let out the first sound that she'd made since she'd gotten into the office—almost a howl—at the thought of losing the food that she'd just gained and leaned around the side of her own chair to follow Carol with her eyes as Carol gave Alice some room.

"Just a minute," Carol said, worrying a little because she almost felt like she was talking to the animal that they told her this woman might be. "We're not taking it away."

"I'm just going to unlock your hands," Alice said. "And then you can feed yourself with some dignity. Won't that be a nice change of pace?"

But when she reached her hand behind the woman, meaning to push her forward and unlock the cuffs, the woman snatched in Alice's direction and very nearly head-butted her. She missed only because, in her slight stupor, she'd failed to guess the distance between them correctly.

"What the hell!" Alice barked at her. "You can't _act_ like that! Nobody is doing a thing to you! If I'm going to do nice things for you, then you're going to have to be nice to me! I was going to let you loose!"

Alice was clearly surprised by the woman's action. The woman's movement had startled Carol, too, because she'd somewhat smashed the sandwich in her hand when she jumped. The woman, though, appeared just as surprised as either of them.

"I'm sorry!" She said quickly. "I'm—I'm sorry!"

It was the first indication that she even had the ability to speak. And when the words came out of her mouth, a different quality to their sound than Carol was accustomed to, Alice made eye contact with Carol. Carol didn't know, though, what her expression was supposed to communicate.

Alice caught the woman's face in her hand.

"What's your name?" Alice asked. The woman didn't respond and Alice shook her face a little. "Tell me. What's your name? Speak to me— _inmate_."

"Sadie," the woman finally offered. Alice glanced back at Carol, but Carol was still not sure what she was supposed to be doing. Sadie, as she called herself, decided to speak again. This time without prompting. "Can I have the food? Please?"

Alice looked back at her.

"One condition," Alice said. Sadie nodded at her enthusiastically. She'd take whatever condition Alice had for her. "Tell me if you can hear me right now." Sadie shook her head. Alice nodded hers in response. "I'm going to unlock your hands. If you sit still, you can have the sandwich. You can have two or three—if you want them. Deal?"

"Deal," Sadie offered, leaning up and looking toward Carol again to keep track of the food. Carol stepped forward and offered her the sandwich the moment that she had a hand free. She was eating, cramming large bites into her mouth, before Alice ever got the cuffs off the other hand.

"What does it mean, Alice?" Carol asked.

"It means we don't have a single damn idea what gets you qualified as the wildest animal out there," Alice said, sitting back in her chair. "But we're about to find the fuck out one _victim_ at a time. And I've got a pretty good idea that it's going to make us both every bit as sick as anything else has. Can you hand me another sandwich and some water? This one isn't going to go far."


	58. Chapter 58

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I think you can assume this to be pretty common to this story, but there's some violent/disturbing content in the chapter where they're discussing treatment of Wilds. Not too graphic, but it's there.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Carol had spent the entire day with Alice, even going so far as to eat her lunch in the clinic with the woman, so that they could get through as many of the new arrivals as possible. Due to the general state of neglect and poor treatment of the people—and the fact that each one had to be won over individually to even begin to treat them—they had only made it through four of them by the time they were due to start cleaning up and preparing to close down the clinic for the evening.

What they had discovered was that the main reason for being dubbed the wildest of the Wilds was a leaning toward repeated violence, especially toward the guards, but other contributing factors, though varied, seemed often to come into play. Of the four people they'd seen, one had been profoundly deaf, two had displayed signs of underlying and untreated medical issues that Alice had wagered contributed to their so-called problematic behavior, and one woman had seemed to have broken entirely from reality under the mental strain of it all.

 _And there were still six more to be seen._

"I'll send food over," Alice said. "Everyone we saw gets a meal, but everyone else gets _double_ the food. If they weren't fucking starving and dying from thirst they'd have a chance to at least be in a better damn mood."

Carol didn't point out that Alice's own mood could use a little boosting. It was growing progressively worse with each passing minute. Like most compassionate people, she was absorbing the pain and the anger of the people that she was treating. She kept it together when they were in the room, but the moment they left the clinic she broke into a few hundred pieces and wandered off to another examination room to scrape herself back together and to glue the pieces back into place before the next inmate was brought in.

If nothing else, watching Alice all day had taught Carol one thing—she wasn't going to hurt them. At the very least, she wasn't going to hurt them purposely or voluntarily. If she did anything, it would be with the gun at her own head—and at those moments, everyone's decisions weren't really their own.

Richardson, the over-sized guard that they'd started the morning with, had been working with them all day as well. With some assistance, he brought the inmates to them. Without quite as much help—except in the case of the woman who had taken leave of her senses almost entirely—he took them back. He seemed to care more than the others and he seemed to like Alice. Whether his interest in her was personal, or simply some kind of feeding off of her energy that was taking place, Carol couldn't tell. What she did know was that the guard wasn't leaving his post until they closed the clinic.

They would all sleep well tonight—the sleep of the exhausted—even if their sleep was haunted with nightmares of the horrors that they imagined others to have suffered.

"Last call," Richardson barked, opening the door of the clinic. Some slight commotion outside—some barked orders from another guard that was helping with the delivery—told Carol that he was bringing another inmate.

"Last call was the last one," Alice responded. "We're done."

"He's here," Richardson responded. "They had him ready when I got there..."

Alice glanced at Carol and Carol shrugged at her. She was at work. If Alice said they were going to see one more, then Carol would stay and hand her things as she requested them. If Alice said she was too tired to deal with it, Carol would go home after they'd sent the inmate back to wait another day. Alice let out a growl in response, an indication of her progressively worsening mood, and then she yelled back to Richardson to bring the inmate in.

When Richardson brought the man into the clinic, Carol quickly assessed him. Like all the others, he wore chains around his legs. He wore the metal collar that they used to manhandle them—a collar that was likely something they wore at most times given that everyone they'd seen had sores around their necks that were probably caused by the constant rub—and he wore a blindfold. The only difference, that Carol could see, was that the man's arms weren't cuffed traditionally. Instead, there was a heavy chain bound tightly around his upper body that pinned his arms to his side just at the elbow. A fast glance at his hands told Carol that this form of binding him was owed to the fact that the man was, in fact, missing one of his hands.

"Bring him over," Alice said, directing Richardson. The guard pushed the inmate forward and the inmate spat some kind of muffled curse at him. He tried to look around, like he might see through the blindfold, and Carol's stomach rolled a little.

Whether it was the quality of Daryl's description or some sort of instinct, Carol got the sudden and sharp feeling that she was in the presence of Daryl's brother. She didn't say anything, though, and instead started gathering things together for Alice while the woman helped Richardson settle the man into a chair.

"Can you hear me?" Alice asked. "Give me some indication that you can hear me if you can."

"Wish to fuckin' hell I couldn't hear you," the inmate responded. "Got a voice like a damn stuck pig."

"Charmer," Alice responded. "Since you're so charming, I'm going to be straightforward with you. I'm as tired as I can be right now. Now—I've got food here to offer you and I need to examine you. You can make this an easy trade for both of us or you can choose to make this as hard as it possibly can be. One way or another, _I win_. Your choice."

"What kinda food?" The inmate asked.

Carol almost laughed to herself. The food got everyone's attention. Though she may have had the most trouble communicating at first, they'd found the deaf woman—Sadie—the most agreeable of their patients. She was also the most informative. They left her alone to eat two and a half sandwiches in peace—a fairly impressive amount given her stature—and then she'd cooperated with them almost one-hundred percent. They'd learned from her that it had been roughly three days since she could recall eating, so they'd assumed the near starvation was a common trait for all of them.

"Sandwiches," Alice said, leaning over the seated prisoner. From the way he was sitting, and the way his arms were bound, he could have overtaken her in an instant. Maybe she trusted him more than she should have, or maybe she was just exhausted beyond care, but she didn't seem spooked by him. "You want them or you want me to knock your ass out and do this the hard way?"

He licked his lips and smirked from behind the blindfold.

"I'll take the food," he said. "But—I ain't opposed to the _hard way_ if you're offering, sugar."

Alice laughed quietly. She was either truly amused or growing delirious. She reached and untied the blindfold from around the man's eyes. His smirk only widened when his steel blue eyes were free from their cover. Carol's stomach did another little flip. She knew those eyes.

"Carol? Sandwiches?" Alice asked, abandoning the man for a moment. He watched her every move, smirking as he did, and Carol wondered if it bothered Alice at all to know she was being ogled by the man. Carol offered him a sandwich, stepping close to him for the first time. She wasn't sure how she was going to find her voice and how she was going to tell him that his brother was alive and well. "Do you have a name?" Alice asked, rolling her cart over and bringing her chair to sit near the man.

"I'd rather have yours," the inmate responded. Carol held back on the urge to suggest that his name might be Merle.

"Dr. Walker," Alice responded. "Alice. And you are?"

"Don't really matter, does it?" Merle responded, trying to eat his sandwich around his restraints.

"I could unlock those for you," Alice said. "If you think you can handle that. I have to warn you, though, that my buddy Richardson over there has orders to shoot you if you try anything. And he's not shooting to wound."

The inmate glanced at Richardson, sitting in his time-out corner and reading the book that he'd been working his way through during most of the day, and then he looked back at Alice. Carol saw his throat bob with his swallowing.

"Shoot to wound," he said, "is what the fuck they do every day. Let me outta these chains, A-lee-se."

"Name?" Alice asked before she unlocked the restraints.

"Merle," the man said. As soon as he gained his freedom, he tore into the sandwich with his teeth. When they were eating had been the only time that Carol had truly thought most of the prisoners seemed to really be wild. They tore at the food like they were ripping apart prey. Carol was grateful that it had been a long time since she'd been that hungry. "Who the hell are you?" He asked, finally making eye contact with Carol. He rolled his eyes from her face down to her feet. She could almost feel violated by his stare alone.

"Carol," she responded. She bit back the desire to introduce herself further for the moment. She was simply observing him now that she knew he was really Daryl's brother.

"How'd you lose this hand, Merle?" Alice asked. She reached for the cuff that he was wearing and the man snatched away from her.

"Don't touch my fuckin' arm or you might lose yours!" He barked.

Alice backed up and held her hands up in mock surrender.

"I have to examine you," she said. "You know that. You agreed to it." Still visibly tense, Merle watched her. She put her hands down and eased them toward him again. "I'm not going to hurt you. That isn't my job. How'd you lose it?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Merle responded.

Alice nodded.

"I would," she said. "Can I see? They gave you the cuff?"

"Couldn't stand to look at the shit," Merle said. He did let Alice touch him, though, and he let her remove the cuff. He continued, with the hand he had left, to feed himself the sandwich while he stared at her every move. "Had a fight with a...very nice officer. Fuckin' chained my ass up as punishment. Outside like a damn dog. Couple days—forgot about me. Damn bucket of water just outta reach."

"So how'd you lose the hand?" Alice asked.

"The saw wasn't outta reach," Merle said. He rolled his eyes from Alice then to look at Carol. He smirked at her when he noticed her looking back at him. He attacked the sandwich and chewed through the bite of it while staring hard at Carol. "Little bitty sweet piece," he said, speaking around the last of the bite as he finished it.

"How long ago?" Alice asked, looking at the stump and ignoring Merle's other comments.

"Let me check my damn calendar," Merle responded.

"It's infected," Alice said. "And whoever—sewed it up? Looks like they never did a suture before. I'm going to have to treat you for that infection. If I don't—it could get ugly. Uglier than it is. You could lose more of this arm."

Merle hummed at her, still watching Carol. Carol moved to get him another sandwich. She unwrapped it and offered it to him even as he leaned forward to snatch it from her. His eyes weren't leaving her despite the fact that the cleaning Alice was working on giving the wound had to be painful enough that even the food couldn't distract him from it entirely.

Carol felt herself relax—she was finding that she didn't fear him. Not even as much as he clearly _wanted_ her to fear him.

"Your brother is alive," Carol said. She saw his expression change. She saw, too, that Alice was looking at her with some curiosity. "Daryl?"

"The fuck you know about my brother?!" Merle barked. Carol jumped simply because the words were the loudest that she'd heard since he'd entered the clinic.

"He's alive," Carol said. "He's alive and he's here. He's my... _mate_."

"Daryl?" Alice asked, interrupting any response that Merle might have made. Though, for just a moment, the man seemed speechless. He was staring at Carol like he was trying to figure out her angle—he suspected it to be nothing more than a trap.

"Merle is Daryl's older brother," Carol said, keeping her eyes on Merle. "They were separated at capture. They told Daryl that Merle is dead. So, I'm guessing, they told Merle that Daryl is dead too."

"Where the hell is my brother?" Merle asked. He jerked like he might get up and Alice quickly came out of her chair and pushed him back. She almost covered him entirely with her body to keep him from reacting. A reaction could end badly. Richardson wasn't as jumpy as some of the guards, but he still had clear orders.

"Let's get this arm healed," Alice offered, lowering her own voice like it might lead Merle to do the same, "and show them you can act like a _human_ and I'll get you your brother to you. Just the same as I got you those sandwiches? I can get you what you want—but you have to play by the rules. It's all in good time here."

"Every fucking thing is playing by your damn rules!" Merle barked. Carol saw Richardson's interest get piqued and she shushed Merle out of instinct. If it went badly, it could go badly for all of them—just by being in the wrong place at the wrong time. One shot fired could mean other guards coming in—and other guards might not distinguish well between the various types of Wilds.

"It's _all_ a _game_ , Merle," Alice said. "You play it right, you win the game. That's all it is. You play it right? You win a mate. You win your brother. You win your freedom. You play it wrong? You lose a hell of a lot more than this hand."

Merle remained tense for a moment and then, seeming to respond to Alice's words, his smirk returned and he settled once more into his chair. He remembered the sandwich he was clutching. He returned to it and chewed through the first bite before he spoke again. Alice, too, settled back into her positon and Carol saw Richardson return to his book.

Merle hummed.

"Little brother's alive," he mused. "And got himself _a mate_. Took some damn body handin' him over a piece for him to finally get one." Carol didn't respond. She knew—better than most people even knew she might—when she was being antagonized. He wanted a rise out of her. He wasn't going to get it. Merle hummed at her again and gave her a thorough inspection once more. She decided that she wasn't giving him any more information. Not right now. Alice, she knew, would offer him nothing more than what he needed to get through her job for the day. "Guess if you're giving it away, he drew a decent straw. Coulda done worse...yeah...coulda done a lot worse. My little brother. Maybe I'll do half as damn good."

"Eat your sandwich," Alice said, entirely unbothered by Merle. "You don't want to show your weakness by hitting the floor in a minute when I take your blood."


	59. Chapter 59

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"But he's OK?" Daryl asked. "He's really Merle and he's really alive?"

"He's really consumed by fever," Carol responded. "And Alice is really surprised that he's still alive. That it didn't _kill_ him."

Daryl laughed to himself. He couldn't explain the way that he felt just knowing that his brother was alive. For what felt like decades he'd lived with the guilt that he'd killed his brother. Not directly, of course, but the result had been the same. He'd left him there to die. In his mind, Daryl could see the image he'd created—built piece by piece from the words that he'd heard too many times in taming—of Merle dying while defending their own little Alamo in the wilderness.

But Merle was _alive_.

Daryl felt like a weight had been lifted off of him and that was just the guilt. It didn't begin to cover the fact that he was actually pleased that his big brother was still alive.

"Can't nothin' kill Merle but Merle," Daryl mused.

"What?" Carol asked. Daryl hadn't spoken the words very clearly. They weren't meant to be heard, really. He'd only accidentally said them out loud.

"Can't nothin' kill Merle but Merle," Daryl repeated, this time making sure that Carol could hear him. "That's what I always believed. Before all of this. Merle was hell-bent and determined to kill himself with drugs and drinking too damn much. Fucked up every which way he turned for most of his life. He always said he was immortal. Couldn't a damn thing kill him. Like they used to say—ten foot tall and bullet proof. That was Merle. I never figured he was immortal, but I figured that if he died, it would be Merle that killed Merle."

"But you thought he was dead," Carol pointed out.

Daryl hummed and nodded his head in agreement with her.

"Yeah," he said. "But—I didn't think none of this shit was possible back when I was figuring that Merle was damn near immortal. I sure wasn't expecting this. None of it. Not the Dead. Not the prisons. Not this place. They told me his ass was dead, I didn't have no reason not to believe 'em."

Carol toweled off slowly enough that the air in the room had probably dried her body by now. Absentmindedly, though, she continued to scrub at her skin with the terrycloth rectangle. Daryl watched her for a moment, lost in whatever thoughts she was thinking, and then he finally cleared his throat to catch her attention and draw her back to him.

"What'cha thinking?" He asked.

She offered him a soft smile that was barely more than the raised corner of her mouth.

"Wondering what it feels like," Carol said, "to just have someone come back to life like that."

Daryl swallowed. He knew she was probably thinking about her daughter, Sophia. Whenever she got that far away look in her eyes she was almost always thinking about Sophia. She rarely mentioned any of her other dead and Daryl knew it was because they either rested peacefully in her mind—like her parents—or because she never wanted to see them resurrected—like her husband.

"Feels weird," Daryl admitted. "I'd give him up. Took what they said to be truth. Now there's a new truth. I don't think my mind really knows what to do with it."

Carol hummed quietly. The trance was broken, though, and she stopped toweling off her already dry skin. She slipped out of the bedroom and Daryl listened to her bumping around in their small bathroom while she returned the towel to its hanger to dry properly. While she was in there she brushed her teeth and took care of her other nightly business. When she returned to the bedroom where Daryl was waiting for her, she'd be ready to go to bed—that was until she was forced up again by the ever-bothersome call of nature.

Carol came back into the bedroom as naked as she'd left it. She went straight to her drawer to burrow through for something to sleep in and Daryl hummed at her to catch her attention again.

"Don't bother with it," Daryl said.

"I'm tired," Carol said, some apology in her tone.

Daryl laughed to himself and patted the bed.

"Didn't mean that," he said. "Just that you don't need to be all bound up all night. There ain't no need in it. If it makes you feel better, I'll stay all the way over here. All the way on my side."

Carol shook her head at him.

"I didn't mean that either," Carol said. She abandoned her efforts to find something to put on and came toward the bed. She sat on the edge of it, still not ready to sink under the covers and curl next to Daryl. Her nightly routine wasn't done yet. She combed her fingers through her hair, the ends of it starting to curl in one direction or another, and then she picked up the bottle of lotion from the nightstand that was practically one of her prized possessions. Slowly and methodically, she began to slather her body with the cream, starting with her feet.

"What can you tell me about him?" Daryl asked.

"What?" Carol asked.

"My brother," Daryl said. "Merle. What can you tell me about him?"

Carol stopped her work with the lotion for a moment.

"He's got an infection," Carol said. "A bad one. Daryl—he lost his hand. His right one. Alice said he could lose the arm up to the elbow if the antibiotics don't do what she wants. She might have to take more of it off—humanely, of course. They—he said that they chained him up. He had a fight. Some disagreement with an officer. They chained him up outside in a pen. They left him there. No water and no food. But they put the water where he could see it. Just out of reach. They put the hacksaw _within_ reach. Then they left him there."

Daryl winced at the thought of it.

He truly wished that he could say that he was shocked. He wished that he could pretend to be horrified that such a thing would happen—that it would be allowed to happen. He wasn't really all that surprised, though. He didn't know anyone that had experienced the same thing in prison, but he could see that kind of cruelty in the eyes of some of the officers. Given half the chance, the same thing and worse would've happened to any of them a number of times.

Merle was just unlucky enough to piss someone off who got the chance.

"You think the antibiotics is gonna work?" Daryl asked.

"I don't know," Carol said.

"Didn't ask what you knowed," Daryl said. "Asked what you think."

"I hope they will," Carol said. She let the words drop in such a way as to let Daryl know that she had no opinion beyond her hope that the medicine would do what it was supposed to do and would prove stronger than the infection.

"D'you talk to him?" Daryl asked.

"Not much more than I already told you," Carol said, returning to her lotion now. "I told him you were alive. I guess that means—I told Alice too. I told Richardson—the max guard? But I don't know if he really heard me. He's been reading a detective novel all day and he's been pretty wrapped up in that. Anyway—I just told him that you were alive. That I knew you were his brother and that—that you were alive. That you were here. That you're my _mate_."

Daryl cringed a little at the word. He didn't care for the fact that they were called mates. He didn't know what else he might classify them as—and honestly mate might be just as good as any other title—but he didn't like the way that it made them sound like they were nothing more than beasts who picked each other out of the pack to reproduce for the good of the species.

The title might be _accurate_ , but it wasn't flattering or comforting. He and Carol had briefly discussed it, and had talked about figuring out some kind of way to make the word their own, but they hadn't figured out, yet, how to do that. Until they figured out a way to make it their own, it wasn't ever going to be anything less than a word that had the ability to make his skin crawl.

"Bet he got a kick outta that," Daryl said, choosing not to discuss vocabulary with Carol again.

She laughed to herself.

"I guess he might have," she said. "Mostly he just—insulted you."

Daryl chuckled.

"That's my brother," he said. "Merle's always been an asshole."

"And you tolerate it?" Carol asked.

"Out of all the assholes I've known in my life, Merle's been the least hard to deal with," Daryl said. "He just runs off at the mouth. Hell—I don't think he means half of what he says. I don't even think he realizes what the hell he's saying. He's just running his mouth because he likes the sound of his own damn voice so much."

"He said it took them giving you a mate for you to have a woman in your life," Carol said.

"He ain't all wrong," Daryl said.

Carol looked at him over her shoulder, pausing with her lotion once more, and shook her head gently.

"It's not very nice, Daryl," Carol said. "And it certainly isn't flattering. I _chose_ you. Before we even got here. Remember? They didn't _give_ me to you. I wasn't a gift."

"I remember," Daryl said. "I chose you as much as you chose me. But Merle don't know that. Wouldn't matter anyway. He'd still bust my balls over it just because that's what he does. They give him a mate?"

Carol shrugged her shoulders.

"He'll get one eventually," Carol said. "Out of the women he came with."

"Any decent ones?" Daryl asked.

"Not that I'm sure deserve your brother," Carol responded.

Daryl might have taken offense to the statement if it had come from anyone else. Actually, if it had come from anyone else, he _would have_ taken offense. When Carol said it, though, it didn't sound offensive. It sounded like an accurate assessment of Merle Dixon.

"When do I get to see him?" Daryl asked.

Carol turned and held the lotion bottle in his direction.

"Back?" She asked.

Daryl worked his way out from under the cover and got into position to slather the lotion on her back. He'd offered to do it before and she enjoyed it so much that it had become a nightly ritual. He wasn't opposed to it, though, because he liked it too. He liked the silky lotion under his palms. He liked the way that it felt gliding over Carol's skin. He liked that it gave him just another way to touch her that she never turned down, even if she wasn't quite in the mood for anything else.

And he liked the soft moans that she made when it felt good because he liked knowing that, even without touching her in any way that might be leading to sex, he could make her make those noises.

"Alice said you get to see him as soon as she can get you a pass," Carol said. "He's under lock-down right now. All the max prisoners are. But as soon as she can come up with a way to get you over there—she's going to. Until then? Everyone has to hold tight. You and Merle both. Doing anything else would be stupid and stupid, around here, can be fatal."

"Yeah," Daryl said. "I get it. Understand. Heard you loud and clear."

Her muscles tightened just at the thought that he might do something. Daryl felt them tense under his palms. He let silence fall between them as he gently kneaded them, using more lotion than was absolutely necessary, and when he brought his palms down to the small of her back, he slipped them around to gently knead the soft skin of her stomach.

There was no proof, yet, of the baby that they were assured was there. There was no change in Carol's physical appearance to indicate its presence. But they knew that it was there. Daryl knew that it was there—and he knew that he was always allowed to touch her, gently, where he knew the baby to be resting and hiding from the world while it worked on the hard job of growing bigger than what Carol explained to be something like a decent sized grain of sand.

Carol covered his hands with her own and leaned back into him, so Daryl scooted forward enough to press his chest to her back.

"You tell him about the baby?" Daryl asked.

"No," Carol said. "I didn't. It just—didn't seem _right_. It didn't feel right. Did I do wrong? Should I have?"

Daryl hummed and moved his mouth to nip the skin on the back of her neck gently. He always had the odd sensation of desiring to _bite_ her. The feeling was new and strange to him and he worried that it might be strange to anyone—so he didn't tell her how often he felt it. She never scolded him, though, when he nipped her as long as the nips didn't hurt too much—and he welcomed the scolding then because his desire, even if it was to bite, wasn't to hurt her.

He kissed the spot where he'd let his teeth gently close together on her skin.

"You didn't do wrong," he said. "If it weren't right, it weren't right. Reckon—if it all works out—he'll find out soon enough."

"I thought you could tell him," Carol said.

Daryl swallowed, imagining to himself what it might be like to tell Merle that he and Carol were having a baby together. Even though, around here, it was entirely expected, he wasn't sure it was anything that Merle would be expecting to hear—not from him.

Daryl smiled to himself.

"Yeah," he said. "I'll tell him when I can. You're plenty soft enough for one night. And my eyes are burning. Let's get some sleep."


	60. Chapter 60

**AN: Here we are, another chapter here.**

 **Very short time jump here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Most mornings Andrea's schedule didn't vary too much. She was up ridiculously early to spend part of the morning on the bathroom floor. Michonne spent that time going back and forth between checking on Andrea and having quiet breakfasts with Milton who wasn't entirely opposed to eating with her as long as she kept the chit-chat to a minimum while he looked over whatever notes he always seemed to be studying before work. When Andrea was feeling a little better, she'd eat breakfast—which now tended to be some kind of bread washed down with juice—and then she'd go back to bed and sleep until Michonne was able to drag her back out again to at least pretend that she was alive.

This morning, however, had been fairly different. The morning "camp out" in the downstairs bathroom had happened just the same as it always did—entirely out of Andrea's control—but Andrea hadn't gone back to bed afterward. Instead, she seemed to have more energy and more life to her than she had in the while that they'd been there. Today was a big day, especially for Andrea. It was the first ultrasound—a day when she was going to see the baby that she joked already hated her.

"You do realize that it's just going to be like—a blob, right?" Michonne asked, watching Andrea wash down her breakfast with a glass of juice. The vitamin she knew she had to take was still sitting on the table and Michonne moved and put it on her now empty plate to remind her that, even if she hated the act of trying to swallow it, she had to choke it down. "You're not really going to see anything."

"No, Mich," Andrea responded. "I don't realize it's just going to be a blob. Because I've never _done_ this before. And—I really don't appreciate you trying to rain on my parade about the whole thing."

"Not raining on your parade," Michonne responded. "Just checking your reality."

Andrea shook her head at Michonne.

"I don't need a reality check," Andrea said. "Everything about my life right now feels like some kind of giant reality check. What I _need_ is to enjoy whatever the hell I can. I get to get out of the house. I get to _see_ my baby. I get to hear a _heartbeat_. I need to enjoy that—not have you checking to see if I'm realizing it probably won't be that great by your standards."

Michonne felt properly scolded at the moment.

"I know you've never done this before," Michonne said. "Things were a lot different out there. And I know that things can't be that comfortable now. I just don't want you to build this up to be something magical that it's not going to be and then feel disappointed about it. That's all. I'm just trying to keep you from crashing. I see you watching it, by the way. You've got to take that vitamin."

Andrea curled her lip at Michonne.

"It's really hard to swallow that without gagging," she pointed out. "And when I gag? It's not going to end well. Can I just keep my breakfast for—a few more minutes?"

Michonne laughed to herself.

"What's it going to hurt, right?" Michonne said. "By the way, there's more juice in there. Milton had three bottles of it sent over for you. He thought you might like it since he wasn't going to make it today for the ultrasound."

Andrea raised an eyebrow at Michonne.

"Milton thought I might like it? Or Michonne thought I might like it?" Andrea asked.

Michonne bit back her smile.

"Milton needed a little help," Michonne admitted. "But after I pointed it out to him that it would be a nice gesture? It was his idea to order three bottles of the juice instead of just the _one_ that I suggested. I think he gets at least some credit for his efforts."

"He can have some of the credit," Andrea ceded. "All the same flavor?"

"Whatever it is that you like so much," Michonne said. "That's pretty much what Milton said on the phone. Whatever it is that you're always ordering."

The juice was, like much of what they consumed, products of their "new world". When the world came back to life, everything that they'd known before was essentially gone. The government had rebuilt everything. The government also _controlled_ everything. If you wanted something to eat or drink, you could probably get it, but it was coming with the labels of the new companies that were all government owned and, to some degree, government operated. Michonnne had noticed that pretty much everything these days was produced with what she might call a generic label. It reminded her of the food that was discounted in the grocery stores that was always labelled with the most basic information—what the product was and little else—because the company wasn't spending money on marketing or pretty labels. Back then, people bought it because it was what they could afford. These days, people bought it because it was what was _available_. There wasn't need to convince them that they wanted the only brand that _existed_.

Michonne hardly ever drank the juice, and she knew that Milton didn't touch it, because it just seemed like it was Andrea's. It belonged to her. Currently it was the only thing that she got excited about and it just didn't feel right to drink it if it might deprive her of that simple and fleeting bit of happiness.

Andrea got up from her chair, picked the vitamin off the saucer, and put it back on the table to stare at it until a later time. Usually she didn't get it down until right before bed even though Michonne put it with her breakfast daily. She took her plate to the kitchen and Michonne heard her open the refrigerator.

"Did you write the note?" Andrea called.

"What note?" Michonne responded.

"The good day note?" Andrea asked. "The one on the fridge that says I hope you have a good day?"

"Milton," Michonne responded, pleased with the fact that the man had thought of something like that. It was a small gesture, but small gestures from Milton were grand gestures to Andrea. They were still trying to figure out how the whole thing worked—Milton was the father of the baby, biologically, but the baby was part of his experiment. They were trying to figure out, more than anything, if the baby meant anything more to him than just furthering the plan. And if it did, what did it mean exactly? What might Andrea mean to him?

The note, knowing Andrea, would only increase the likelihood that she actually _did_ have a good day.

"That's really sweet of him," Andrea mused, stepping back where Michonne could see her, full bottle of juice in hand, lingering between the kitchen and the living room. "Do you think Alice will give me one of those little pictures? To show him?"

"I think Milton will get a video of the ultrasound if that's what he wants," Michonne said. "Or she'll do it again at a special time for him. Milton gets whatever Milton wants." Andrea showed her disapproval of Michonne's comment even from this distance. "She'll probably give you one of the pictures, too," Michonne added, hoping to soften her earlier comment.

The knock at the door only brought excitement to Andrea's features. She said something—Alice was early or something to the like—and she moved to stand just far enough away from the door that it could open without hitting her. Alice didn't give her customary greeting as she unlocked the door—probably sure that they were already anticipating her arrival—and she didn't stick her head in the door to look around and check for their locations before she invited herself inside.

Instead, the door opened wide and suddenly. It happened quickly enough that if either of them had been standing in the way, the impact might have actually caused them some injury. The door hit the wall with a slam that shocked Michonne.

Whether the glass broke first or the man yelled, Michonne wasn't sure. She'd never be sure. Her ears heard both at the same time.

" _She's got a weapon_!"

The fight that broke out between Andrea and the guard that entered the house was barely describable as a fight. It was mostly the guard fighting Andrea while Andrea fought to be free from the guard. Michonne made it to her feet, still feeling mostly stunned by the situation, but she wasn't able to even react before she heard another man say something about " _unauthorized_ " and she was suddenly overtaken in her own battle. She hardly even knew the man had her in his grasp before she felt the sharp pain of her head making hard contact with the floor.

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Michonne could have been convinced that they'd been locked in the unexplained and sudden nightmare for hours, but realistically she knew it was only a few moments, when she heard a voice that was familiar ringing out over the chaos.

"Fucking hell! Get the hell off of her! Get the hell off of her! What the hell is going on here?" Alice screamed, her voice shrill and high next to the louder booming voices of officers that were trying to explain their actions.

The man holding Michonne flat against the floor didn't immediately let her up and she could guess that the same could be said for the officer that had attacked Andrea because she heard Alice loudly protesting his abuse of Andrea. Then Michonne heard another woman's voice. It was a voice that she hadn't heard before.

"She had a weapon," the woman said.

"What weapon?" Alice asked.

"When we opened the door, she met us with a weapon," the woman responded. "They had to diffuse the situation."

"It was juice!" Michonne got out just as the officer let her up enough to allow her to breathe. "It was a bottle of juice. It wasn't a weapon." She touched at the side of her mouth and looked at her fingers. She was bleeding. She wondered if her forehead, now victim to a constant thumping, was bleeding too but she wasn't going to check.

"I don't have a weapon," Andrea sputtered out in protest. "I don't have _anything_. I'm not even wearing _pants_."

"Maggie, call off your guards!" Alice yelled. "Call them off! Damn it! This is the second house this has happened in already and if this how you're doing things then...just pack up and fucking _leave_. Just fucking _go_! And take your hyper-sensitive attack dogs with you! I put the guides up on the doorframes for you! I put them up for you to know where the hell you shouldn't go just busting in. Do I have to post signs that say do not attack the gestating mothers?"

"Is Andrea OK?" Michonne asked, not getting up from her spot for fear of being put back into it. She wasn't in the mood to stir them up again when Alice seemed to have just gotten the calm she commanded to fall over everyone. Alice, she could see, was inspecting Andrea. "Is Andrea OK?" Michonne asked again when she felt that she might not get a response.

"What hurts?" Alice asked, clearly directing her question to Andrea while she actively ignored the other brunette woman that was, as far as Michonne knew, new to Woodbury.

"It's OK," Andrea started.

"I want you to complain!" Alice barked. "What hurts?" She asked again, softening her tone. "Here—I'll start the list with you. Your foot hurts because that's—well, that's probably going to need stitches. What else?"

Andrea hesitated a moment before she finally played her own version of the "Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes" game with Alice. Alice maintained her composure while dealing with Andrea, but as soon as she gave Andrea the command to stay where she was and got to her feet, Alice seemed to come as unglued as she'd been before. She was no longer ignoring the new arrival to Woodbury.

"Do you even know how much trouble you could cause here? Do you even know what saying shit like _she's got a weapon_ could do?" Alice asked.

"Alice, you misunderstand," the woman—Maggie—responded.

"I understand that this is the second house where I've found you attacking one of my patients," Alice said. "And I understand that both times were unprovoked."

"Michael thought she had a weapon," Maggie said. "We have to protect ourselves. And there's an unauthorized prisoner here—we didn't know what might be happening."

Alice looked at Michonne. Michonne still didn't move. She didn't want to escalate things and she could see, from here, that Andrea appeared to be fine even if she was a little worse for the wear than Michonne was at the moment.

"Check your charts again," Alice said. "Read your memos a little more closely and do your homework. She's a hundred percent authorized to be here. There's another prisoner that's authorized to be here too. He's here whenever he wants to be. And—for the record—we're not calling them prisoners. They're citizens. This is their _home_. And they have a right to have fucking juice with their breakfast without expecting a concussion for it."

"I never meant for anything bad to happen," Maggie said. "You know I wouldn't do anything..."

"I don't know anything about you anymore," Alice said quickly. "But I do know what just happened. And I do know that this _will_ be reported."

"Alice, you don't have to report this," Maggie said. "It was a mistake. The officers made a mistake. And it's better to err on the side of caution. You know that."

"It's better to err on the side of not being brutal," Alice said. "And this _has_ to be reported. This is Milton Mamet's house. Andrea? She's Milton's personal _companion_. His _pregnant_ personal companion. Milton has to know what happened. And he's going to report it. And you better—you just better hope that nothing worse than a mess I have to send someone to clean up and few stitches comes out of this."

"Alice—I think we should talk," Maggie said.

"We should," Alice said. "But I can't because I've got work to do. And thanks to you, I've got a lot more of it now. So I think—right now? You should leave. Get your guards on a shorter leash until you can find some that aren't gun shy and don't even go _near_ a house that has a Cherokee Rose."

"When you calm down, I hope we'll be able to talk?" Maggie asked. "I'll be around all day."

"Unfortunately, I'm aware," Alice said. "If I have time—I'll talk to you. Right now? I've got things to do." Rather than argue any more, the brunette turned and started out of the door. "Take Bruno and Rocky with you!" Alice added, yelling it at the woman.

"What happened?" Michonne asked.

"Hurricane Maggie happened," Alice responded. She shook her head at Michonne. "I don't have time to explain right now. Can you wrap a towel around that cut on Andrea's foot? I think the glass got her. Watch out for the glass—by the way. Don't worry about cleaning it up. I'll send someone to clean. Just—hang tight. I'll be back for both of you in a couple of minutes."


	61. Chapter 61

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Alice had sent Carol to get Daryl and anyone else that she could grab to help her get Andrea down to the clinic without forcing her to put any pressure on her foot which, as Alice described it, was apparently pretty badly cut and bleeding more than Alice was comfortable with allowing it to do for an extended period of time. Daryl had insisted that they didn't need anyone else and he had been right. He'd simply gone to the house, hoisted Andrea up himself, and carried her the decent distance to the clinic without the help of anyone beyond opening and closing doors for him. He'd also stayed long enough to hold her leg, apologizing to her for any discomfort that he might be causing, so that Alice could put stitches in that would close the wound. He'd left immediately after Alice finished bandaging the wound because he didn't want to be involved in anything else that was taking place. Nobody had pressed him to stay. Carol, though, remained close by in case Alice needed help with anything.

Andrea was clearly in shock. Carol didn't know if it was owing to the cut or if it was owing to the events that had led to the cut, but the shock was obvious even to her. Andrea was shaking almost violently and most of what she was saying wasn't making a world of sense, but she kept saying it anyway. Her favorite lines were stuck on repeat, almost, and Carol's only way to respond to the whole thing was to keep asking Alice to explain to her what had happened, even if she wasn't getting an explanation right away.

"You can't tell them what happened," Andrea insisted. "You can't. You can't tell them what happened. You can't."

The words rolled around and around and Alice had simply ignored them while working on Andrea's foot. Now that it was bandaged, though, and no longer actively bleeding, Alice walked around and caught Andrea's hands in hers.

"Look at me!" Alice yelled in Andrea's face. The loudness of her voice seemed to catch Andrea's attention, even if "can't" kept coming out of her mouth. "You have to breathe with me, OK? Breathe with me and then we'll talk. Breathe. Inhale. Hold it. Exhale. Inhale. Not through your mouth, that just makes you panic. Through your nose. Good. Exhale."

"What happened?" Carol asked for what felt like the twentieth time.

Alice ignored her, though, to keep Andrea focusing on her breathing. She gave her the command to keep going as she was, continuously taking in and releasing oxygen, and Alice gathered a few things to start cleaning the minor scrapes and cuts that both women had sustained on their faces and other body parts. It was only then that she apparently felt she could divide her attention enough to tell Carol what the commotion had been about.

"Margaret Greene happened," Alice said. "Hurricane Maggie. And if anybody says I didn't see this coming then they're a liar. I've been saying this was the kind of thing that was going to happen since I found out they picked her up for the job instead of Melodye—my partner."

"What job?" Michonne asked, breaking her momentary practice of coaching a now calming Andrea.

"She's a therapist," Alice said. "At least theoretically that's what she is. All of you have to be evaluated mentally and several times over. The government demands it even outside the constraints of the project. If you're going to be considered completely tame—truly not Wild—then you're going to have to be evaluated by a professional. That's not the problem, though. It's the professional that they _chose_ that's the problem."

"It sounds like you two have some history," Michonne said.

"I guess you could say that," Alice said. "It boils down to this...once upon a time, those of us who were in safe zones didn't know what the hell to do about the world around us because none of us understood a damn thing. At that time, the Walkers were the greatest threat out there."

"Walkers?" Carol interrupted.

"Dead people walking," Alice said. "So what do we do about them? They ranged from your uncle Steve to that nice lady that sold frozen yogurt down the street. Didn't seem right to kill them, but it seemed like there wasn't much of an option. So how the hell do we handle the threat? I mean—the government was wiping them out, of course, but there was this whole huge debate about it. That's when I met Maggie for the first time. My first job after the turn was working in a lab—it was pretty much the job that all of us had if we had medical degrees of any kind. We determined that the Walkers were, in fact, dead. So—you couldn't really kill them, if you catch my drift, because they were already dead. I rallied for respectful disposal of the bodies, but I was on board with the fact that something had to be done about them. It was the only way. If they weren't put down, more people were going to keep dying."

"I think everyone knew that," Carol pointed out. "I mean, it certainly didn't take us long to figure it out."

"It took some people longer than others," Alice said. "Maggie was an activist for the Rights of the Dead."

"The what?" Carol asked.

Alice ignored her again, though, and went back to Andrea. The woman could switch gears quicker than anyone that Carol had ever met in her life. When she was focused on something, especially something she deemed serious, she was entirely focused on it. Everything else would have to wait.

"Hey, hey," Alice said to Andrea, squeezing her hands. "Welcome back. Your hands aren't shaking as bad anymore. How are you feeling?"

"You can't tell them about this," Andrea said. Alice laughed quietly, but she didn't let go of Andrea's hands.

"So you've been telling me," Alice said. "Milton has to know what happened, OK? He's got to know that you were attacked, in his home, and you were brutalized. It's _important_ that he know about what you experienced. What you both experienced. And besides, the injuries are going to give it away."

"You can't," Andrea repeated.

"Then tell me why I can't," Alice said. "Go ahead. Convince me that this is a bad idea."

"If they think I had a weapon," Andrea explained, "then they'll think I'm violent. You said yourself that violence is going to make them take the baby. You can't tell them because—they can't think I was being violent."

Alice laughed again and shook her head.

"I saw that house. They're cleaning it right now. There aren't any weapons in that house. You didn't have any weapons. They don't even let you have steak knives for longer than it takes you to eat a meal and then they count them when they take them back. You had a large glass bottle of _fruit juice_. If it was a weapon, it wasn't a very good one. You're the only one it hurt. So—and I want you to listen to me—they aren't going to take your baby for this. You are the _victim._ "

Carol spoke up then because she thought that she could answer for the somewhat unsure expression on Andrea's face. She understood it.

"We haven't been victims for a long time," Carol said. "No matter what, it's always been our fault. Everything that's happened to us. Everything in prison that happened. It was always our fault. If a guard—had a bad day and slammed you into a wall? If your nose got broken in the process? You got a flag for it or went to taming because you shouldn't have pushed the guard to that point by simply walking by him to go to the bathroom."

"That's the problem," Alice said. "You've _always_ been the victims. Since this whole damn war against the Wilds started, you've been the victims. And you've been _played_ as the bad guys. It stops here. It stops with Wave Thirty Three." She directed her words at Andrea then. "You were in your _home_ and you were having the breakfast that I _told_ you to have before your appointment. A scared little woman with some gun shy guards broke in on you and attacked you because of their _fear_. A fear that's just as irrational as a fear of the damn dark when there's nothing hiding in the shadows. You two were the third and fourth people those same guards attacked _today_. You don't have to pay for this. You're already paying for it as much as you're going to. And I'm going to take care of your foot and we're going to check on the baby, OK? You—and Michonne? You're not the bad guys. And you're not getting painted that way. Can we look at the baby?"

Andrea seemed a little calmer and she nodded her acceptance of Alice's words and her suggestion to check on the baby. Carol moved over near Michonne, curious to see the ultrasound for herself, and waited while Alice walked Andrea through her examination of her—constantly assuring her that everything was just as wonderful as it could be—that she had to succumb to before she got the _prize_ of laying her eyes on the baby for the first time.

Carol had ultrasounds while she was pregnant with Sophia and she remembered them well. They had been wonderful to her—moments when she felt she could connect with the baby that sometimes felt foreign to her even though they inhabited the same body—and she was eagerly waiting for when it would be time to see the baby that she was carrying. Watching Andrea experience it, for the first time, brought a lump to Carol's throat and she was glad that Alice didn't rush her. She was glad that Alice took the time, even as she jotted down information for herself, to make it a real experience for Andrea. For the moment, the accident of the morning almost didn't matter and Michonne and Carol could have disappeared out of the room entirely.

Carol listened to Alice's running narrative while Andrea simply watched, staring at the screen like she was afraid to blink.

"OK, so there's baby. See that? There's an arm and...wait, this angle is better. There's two arms. And down here? Those are two legs. Right there's one and there's the other. So we got four limbs and that's the head. There's the heart. It's beating, so we like that. And—I'm just going to take it away for a minute and get a few measurements. That's your—there's your cervix. So this is you right now. That's your cervix and it measures...that's perfect. One ovary. Looks like it should. There's the other. See that? That spot? Tells me that's where the egg came from. This ovary won. Now—back to the little one. Did you see the movement? Wait—that's you. Relax. That's you causing that movement. There we go. There's the baby. See it wiggling around? Active."

"Is he OK?" Michonne asked. "I mean—he didn't get hurt?"

"He looks fine," Alice assured her. "I mean—I'm not sure he's a "he," but it's as good a guess as any right now. Nothing looks troubling. I'm still going to prescribe a little rest and down time for Mama, but that's as much for that cut to close up well as it is for anything else. It can't hurt to take a little down time."

"But he's OK?" Andrea asked.

Alice smiled at her and nodded her head.

"He's OK," she said. "He's dancing. See? Moving around. You'll feel that soon. He got a good dose of adrenaline, probably, but he's fine. And in a second? When he stops wiggling quite so much, I'm going to get you a picture of him. This angle is good? Where you can see—there's the little arms and legs. They're cute, right?"

Andrea nodded at her and Carol could understand why she was avoiding speaking too much at the moment.

"Can I hear...?" Andrea asked.

"We're listening to the heartbeat," Alice said. "Just—let me get this picture. And that'll print in a minute. And now—there you go. That's the heartbeat."

Carol listened to it and the sound took her back to when she'd heard Sophia's for the first time. Even seeing the images that didn't really look like she'd expected hadn't connected her to her daughter quite the way hearing her little heart beat for the first time had. She'd worried that it was too fast, but she'd been assured that it was just the right speed. Alice, too, assured Andrea that the heartbeat was perfectly in the range that she was hoping for.

"We'll let your picture finish printing," Alice said, when it was all said and done, "and then I'll go get Daryl to help you back to the house. OK? You can get dressed—at least in what you have with you."

Andrea hadn't ever had the chance to change out of the nightgown that she'd been wearing. It was barely more than an oversized shirt, something similar had been issued to all of them, and putting it back on and working her way back into her underwear with Michonne's assistance was about the best that she could do.

"If this Maggie woman was—an activist for Dead rights," Andrea said, "then why would she attack us like that? Or ask her guards to attack?"

Alice groaned.

"She was an activist for the Dead until it bit her in the ass," Alice said. "She was a home-grown country girl. She and her family lived out on this farm and they didn't even leave it to go to the safe zones. They showed up, reported in so they weren't tagged as Wild, but they didn't ever leave the farm. Once it was issued that the Dead needed to all be put down and disposed of, she started rallying for rights. She believed they were still people, essentially, and that they wouldn't be animated otherwise. They were just changed. They needed some kind of medical help. She was all over the news and everything else. Someone got the story that she had a whole barn full of Walkers on her property and, well, everything just sort of blew up. The government sent some officials out there and served her a notice. She didn't comply with it and they came back to inspect the barn. When they broke into the barn, the Walkers got out. They started to put them all down and Maggie and her family tried to stop them. During the whole—thing—that happened next, one of the Walkers killed Maggie's little sister. Her mother, to be more specific, killed her little sister. Maggie snapped after that. She changed entirely. She rallied, then, for the eradication of the Dead."

"And the living too, apparently," Michonne pointed out.

Alice somewhat shook her head, but she wasn't committed to the action.

"I lost touch with Maggie," she said. "I never was close to her, but we knew each other. We had a few disagreements following her change. I may not have agreed with what she stood for, but I liked how she stood for what she believed in. When the studies started coming out about—about the Wilds? I got involved in some sectors. Maggie did too. Our beliefs didn't line up and we didn't—we really didn't have anything to say to one another. She's government employed, and she got the job with the project, but I can't support her presence here. This is supposed to be a place that's _safe_ for you. It's supposed to be geared toward getting you full rights. I don't know—because I didn't keep up with her—what turned her against Wilds, but I know that she's gun shy around them. I know that she's firmly a believer in the once wild, always wild camp. I just don't know if that's the kind of person that we need working on this project."

"Why let her stay, then?" Carol asked.

"It's her job," Alice responded. "But—I'm hoping that Milton is as mad about this as I think he's going to be. If he is? There's a good chance she gets fired. If not fired, she'll at least get reprimanded strongly enough that she's going to have to do some changing again. One way or another, her guards are going to be different. They're going to be reassigned and she's going to get some that are sympathetic to the project. I promise you that."

Carol glanced at Andrea and Michonne. Both of them had similar expressions of concern on their faces. Carol felt that concern too. If they had to be evaluated, and they had to pass some kind of psychiatric test, it wasn't going to be pleasant if the person evaluating them had already decided that they were going to fail.

Alice must have been able to read her thoughts, too, because she shook her head at her and pointed at all of them, gliding her finger through the air.

"That's not for you to worry about," Alice said. "None of it is. You just keep doing what you're doing. The project is still young and we're still working out the kinks. Maggie's nothing more than a kink. You've got your jobs. You know what you've got to do. Let the rest of us worry about the other stuff. Stress isn't good for mothers or babies—and right now that's your main concern. Hurricane Maggie is off your radar right now."


	62. Chapter 62

**AN: Here we are, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Milton's entrance into the house was evidence that either he didn't know about the day's events or he wasn't being overly thoughtful about how they might have affected Andrea and Michonne. The latter proved to be the case.

He came into the front odor quickly and with enough force—reminiscent of the earlier entrance of the guards—that both Andrea and Michonne jumped with the subconscious expectation of another attack.

Milton offered no apology for his entrance and he offered no official greeting. He locked the door behind him, came straight to the chair that he seemed to have claimed as his own, sat down, and rifled through the contents of the bag that he'd carried over his shoulder.

"You're going to have to answer my questions so I can write up this report tonight," he said. "Is the fetus still viable?"

Andrea looked at Michonne and Michonne could do little more than return the look.

"Andrea," Milton said. "Is the fetus still viable?"

"What?" Andrea finally asked.

"Alive," Milton said. "Is it still alive? Does it still carry the same chances for survival outside the womb? At an appropriate time, of course."

"I know what viable means," Andrea said. "I just can't believe you're asking me this."

"Alice reported that it was still viable," Milton said. "But she indicated a desire to keep a check on its condition. Has there been any change since this morning?"

"No," Michonne said, interjecting. "The baby is fine. Andrea's going to be fine. I'm fine. The only thing that we want to be assured of right now is that _that woman_ isn't going to be coming back."

"Unfortunately, I can't assure you of that," Milton said. "Margaret Greene is a government employee. She's been assigned a job to do and that job is to assess the mental condition of the inmates here."

"Don't you have the power to get her released from that job?" Michonne asked. "To get someone else assigned?"

"I have the power to _petition_ for reassignment," Milton responded, flipping through the pages that he'd produced from his bag and setting himself up with the legal pad and pen that he kept close by at all times to scratch notes on. "And if I'm going to do that, I'm going to have to file this report. Which means I need you to answer my questions so I can think about how I'm going to present all of this. Six other reports have been filed already and I have to prepare mine."

"Six reports?" Andrea asked. "About what?"

"The two guards and Margaret Greene filed incident reports about the happenings this morning," Milton responded, not looking up from the pages that he was studying. "Alice Walker filed a medical report about the two occurrences and she filed a statement on behalf of the residents of the other house that was visited before Margaret Greene left the premises. Samirah Lafram filed a report about the security breach. The Governor will be expecting my reports at our morning meeting to make decisions on what should be done and how things should be handled. Can you cooperate?"

"The Governor?" Michonne asked. "I thought you were the governor, or whatever, of Woodbury?"

"The one true power," Milton responded nonchalantly. "He governs everything. They call him the Governor and it's a title that he's accepted. The report?"

"He's the _government?_ " Michonne asked. "Like a King or an— _Emperor_?"

Milton didn't respond to her. He guarded silence long enough to let it be known that he didn't intend to answer any more questions—at least not until _his_ questions were answered. Michonne glanced at Andrea, but Andrea didn't return her glance. She just shifted enough to change her position on the couch a little.

"The baby is fine," Andrea said. "Still viable or whatever you want to call it. He's alive."

"What about your injuries?" Milton asked. He looked at her and then returned his attention to a folder that he'd produced from the same bag. "The pictures that Alice submitted—they don't look accurate to your injuries."

"If those are the pictures that she took this morning," Michonne offered, "then you need to take new ones. Better ones. The bruising wasn't showing then like it's showing now. I think—the _Governor_ needs to see the new bruising. He needs to see what those officers _really_ did. Andrea's back looks horrible."

"I'll call Alice to come and take new pictures," Milton said. "I need to know what happened. In your words."

"Mine or hers?" Michonne asked.

"Either or both," Milton said. "I have to file a report about your experiences. I have to file another about the breach in security to go with my personal complaint."

"Breach in security?" Andrea asked.

Milton sighed.

"Wave Thirty Three is a secure project," Milton said. "But there are a number of levels within Wave Thirty Three. This residence is a secure residence. Nobody enters this residence without clearance from me. The only exception to that rule is Alice Walker—and anyone affiliated with her through the clinic. She has permission to enter the residence to treat you without prior clearance. She has to file a report afterward, but she doesn't have to request permission _prior_ to gaining entrance. Everyone else— _everyone_ —has to obtain permission to enter the residence and to have contact with you. It's important to the project. Margaret Greene didn't have permission to come here today. She had clearance to visit the other residences in Woodbury, but she didn't have permission to come here. She certainly didn't have permission to interact with you or to allow her guards to touch you. It was a breach in security, even if she's claiming it as an accident."

"Is that enough to get her fired?" Michonne asked.

"It's all enough to get the guards fired," Milton said. "Replacement of her guards is likely the best outcome that we can expect from this. I need to know what happened this morning in detail."

"I'll tell you," Michonne offered. Milton picked up his pen and she assumed it was safe for her to start her story. "Andrea got sick and I came in here and made your coffee. I accepted the breakfast delivery and set out breakfast. You came down and we ate together. When I put Andrea's plate out and poured her a glass of juice, I told you that we were out of it. You ordered the three bottles for immediate delivery. They came while you were upstairs getting ready and I accepted the delivery. I put all three bottles in the fridge. After you left, Andrea was feeling better. She ate her breakfast and I told her about the juice. She got up, took her plate into the kitchen, and left the glass in here. She was bringing the whole bottle of juice in here when—when someone knocked on the door. We assumed it was Alice because we had an appointment with her to see the baby in a sonogram. The guards opened the door, declared Andrea had a weapon, and then they attacked both of us. And—that's about it."

"Three of the reports read that you had a weapon," Milton said, directing his question toward Andrea. "Did you have a weapon?"

"I didn't have anything but the juice," Andrea said.

"One guard reports that you attacked him and that he sustained injury during the incident," Milton said. "Did you attack a guard?"

"I fought back," Andrea said.

"Did you injure him?" Milton asked.

"If I did, it was an accident," Andrea said. "I dropped the juice as soon as he yelled at me. The bottle broke on the floor. Glass went everywhere. I was barefoot and he dragged me across the floor and into the kitchen. I cut my foot in the process. He tackled me—to the ground. He slammed my head into the floor and he dropped down on me. He twisted my arms behind my back and put his knee in my back. I fought him. It was instinct."

"That's what he's saying too," Milton said. "Animal instinct."

"Survival instinct," Andrea said.

"And mother's instinct," Michonne said. "Like it or not, Andrea's going to fight for that baby. Any mother would—Wild or non-Wild. Physically attacking her is assaulting the baby indirectly. Protecting herself and her baby is mother's instinct."

Milton wrote something down. Clearly he thought that something he heard was information he could use—it was something he wanted to be sure not to forget.

"You had no other weapon?" Milton asked.

"She didn't have a weapon _at all_ ," Michonne said. "Neither of us did. We didn't even need silverware for breakfast this morning. The only piece of silverware in the house before they came to clean was the spoon that they leave for your coffee every night. She had a bottle of juice. Fruit juice. No weapons."

"Prior to his attack on you," Milton said, "did you threaten the officer in any way? Verbally or physically?"

"No," Andrea said. "I thought it was Alice, so I was standing close to the door. I had the bottle in my hand. I backed up for her to open the door and the officer threw the door open and immediately yelled that I was armed."

Milton squeezed the bridge of his nose between his fingers. He jotted something else down on his pad and then he gathered everything up and returned it to his bag with a sigh.

"It's obvious what happened," Milton said. "The Governor has to see it that way and dismiss the officers. Margaret Greene can still do her job, but she'll have to do it with officers that we supply. Officers that pass our screening. And she'll have to do it while following the rules in place. I can't have a loose cannon around here. Not with the importance of this project. Not with how delicate it is."

Michonne wasn't sure that she could exactly say that Milton was angry, but he was certainly bothered by everything that was going on. His features showed it clearly, and that wasn't something that could always be said for the man. She decided to take a chance.

"Andrea's been keeping a picture of the sonogram warm over there," Michonne said. "So I know it's close by. Would you—like to see the baby?"

Milton looked at her and then glanced at Andrea, but he ended by shaking his head.

"I'll learn everything I need to know from Alice," he said.

"It's not about learning," Michonne said. "It's about—just seeing the baby. Seeing—his first picture."

Andrea shifted around then and sat up, hissing a little at the ache in her back. The officer who had pinned her had done so with enough force that there was decent bruising on her back and it was, as Michonne knew well, uncomfortable.

"Milton, I want to ask you something now," Andrea said. "Something personal. Not—not related to Wave Thirty Three or what happened today." Milton grunted at her. It was clear that he didn't want to answer whatever Andrea might have to ask him. "Do you care about this baby at all? Beyond the project?" When he didn't respond, Andrea pushed further. "Because—this baby is a baby that you and I made. Maybe not in the traditional sense, but we did it with a little help. Biologically, you're the father. So—I guess—what I want to know is do you want to be the father?" Milton still didn't offer her any kind of response. His silence, maybe, could have been an answer in itself, but Andrea wasn't going to be satisfied until she had a clear answer. She wanted something direct. And they knew, even if they knew little else about Milton Mamet, that he could be direct. "If you don't want to know anything about it, Milton, that's fine. If you don't care about me or the baby beyond this project? That's fine. I just want to know. You're already a father. You were a father the same moment I became a mother again. I just want to know—do you want to _actively_ be a father?"

Milton didn't look at her. He didn't look at Michonne. If he was looking at anything, it was the choice he'd made—no doubt—for the wallpaper behind Michonne's head.

"I don't think I'd be very good at being a traditional father," Milton said. "I'd never be the quintessential father that—I just don't think I could be that. I never planned to be."

"It's a good thing we're not going to be a very traditional family," Michonne offered quietly. "If that's what we become."

"You don't have to be that," Andrea said. "Because—the greatest thing about the baby is that the baby doesn't have any expectations. Not about me or about you or—even about Michonne. The baby accepts—just what he gets. I just want to know—what do you want? Do you want—it all just to be about the project? Or do you want to know more?"

Milton looked at Andrea then.

"I would imagine there's hardly anything recognizable in the sonogram," Milton said.

Andrea smiled at him and reached behind her, plucking the picture from where she'd been holding it on the back of the couch. She patted the cushion next to her and Milton hesitated a moment before he changed his location to sit on the cushion next to Andrea. She offered him the picture and, leaning over him, she pointed things out to him.

"That's the head," she said. "And there's—his little body. And..."

"The sex is identifiable?" Milton asked.

"We made it up," Michonne said. "We'll find out for sure later. Right now—he is as good as she."

"We can call it a she if you want," Andrea offered. Milton didn't respond either way. Michonne was sure that he probably didn't care about the sex of the child. He was still trying to learn to care at all—beyond the scientific aspect of it—about the _existence_ of the child. "Those are the little arms and the little legs."

"I wouldn't think it would be so well-developed," Milton said. "Though I haven't studied fetal development extensively."

"Those are the arms and legs in _formation_ ," Michonne offered. "They're forming now, but we know that they're forming. And they'll keep forming as long as—we can keep Margaret Greene from breaking in our house and causing harm."

Milton glanced at Michonne and then returned his focus back to trying to make something out of the fuzzy picture that Andrea was so proudly trying to show him.

"Margaret Greene will, more than likely, be back," Milton said. "But—she won't cause harm. I'll meet with the Governor in the morning and I'll address today's events first thing."


	63. Chapter 63

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Carol rolled over and realized that she was in the bed alone. It wasn't an easy night. She'd been up twice—both times feeling sick but never able to really do anything about it—and she'd sent Daryl back to bed both times. There was nothing she could do about the overall _icky_ feeling that had come over her and there was certainly nothing he could do about it. He had to work the next day and, unlike her job where she could get away with doing nothing too strenuous, Daryl's job involved manual labor. He needed his rest. It appeared, though, that Daryl was up and about, now, at any rate. Carol sighed and pushed back the cover. She got out of the bed and rearranged her nightgown where it had gotten twisted around her with the tossing and turning that had accompanied what fitful sleep she'd gotten.

Carol padded into their living room and found Daryl sitting at the window in one of their kitchen chairs. The light from the street lamps outside filtered into the open curtains and illuminated his position a little.

"What are you doing?" Carol asked.

"Thought you was finally sleeping," Daryl said. "You need it."

"You need it more," Carol said. "They'll have you working tomorrow and if you can't stay awake, it could be dangerous."

"It'll be alright," Daryl said.

"What are you doing?" Carol asked, repeating her question that had gone unanswered.

"Watching," Daryl said.

"For what?" Carol asked, crossing the floor and coming to stand behind Daryl so that she could look out the window. Outside the street was empty. There weren't even any guards out doing the rounds and making sure that nobody was trying to break out of their homes. Nothing was happening in Woodbury. Carol could believe, even, that she and Daryl were the only two awake at this hour.

"Whatever I gotta watch for," Daryl said. "People. People like that woman what broke into Andrea and Michonne's house and beat the shit out of them."

"The woman didn't beat the shit out of them," Carol pointed out. "The guards did."

"She sure didn't stop 'em," Daryl pointed out. "Guess I'm watching for guards, too."

Carol sighed and went for the other kitchen chair. She brought it over and put it near Daryl's chair. She sat down in it, reclined a little, and propped her feet up on Daryl's lap. She hadn't meant for him to do anything about it, but he reached and gathered one of her feet into his hands and began kneading it. She didn't ask him to do it, but she didn't ask him to stop either.

"So how long do we watch for them?" Carol asked. "Because—I don't think they're coming tonight. It looks pretty quiet out there."

"Looked pretty damn quiet before you come looking for me too," Daryl said. "Telling me that Alice sent you to get some help to get Andrea down to the clinic."

"But you were a hero," Carol offered. Daryl hummed. "You were. You carried her down there like—she didn't weigh _anything_. In that moment? You were probably Andrea's hero."

"Shouldn't have needed it," Daryl said. "Weren't that the whole idea here? Didn't need to have nobody looking out for us because we weren't in prison anymore. Getting a whole new life and still there's guards just busting in and beating the hell outta people for no good reason at all."

"Some things don't change," Carol said. "At least—not quickly."

"Didn't Alice say that Andrea's kid is like some kinda special kid?" Daryl asked. "To this project. It matters a whole lot or something?"

"Milton has the whole thing divided into levels," Carol said. "And—Andrea's at the top of those levels. Her baby's very important."

"Is it OK?" Daryl asked.

"It was fine," Carol said. "Alice did an ultrasound. The baby was fine."

"But it might not have been," Daryl pointed out. "Throwing her around like that. Something could've happened."

"It could have," Carol agreed. "But thankfully it didn't. Andrea doesn't need that. She doesn't need to deal with that."

"Nobody does," Daryl said.

Carol wiggled her foot enough to free it from Daryl's grasp and then nudged his hand with the other foot. Without even seeming to notice it, he made the switch and began to knead her other foot with his hands, working out his problems while he worked out any soreness that she might have in her feet.

Carol yawned with the relaxed sensation the foot massage was bringing over her.

"Andrea's fine," Carol offered. "You can go to sleep if you're worried about her. She'll be just fine. And Alice figures that the psychiatrist is getting new guards. Some of our guards. The ones that don't want to kill anyone just for existing."

"It ain't Andrea I'm worried about," Daryl said. "I mean—hell, I guess I'm a little worried about her. I don't want her to die. Don't want her kid to die. But mostly...it could've been you just as easy that they broke in on. Could've been you that Alice was coming to tell me they'd just...and what would've happened then?"

Carol shrugged her shoulders.

"If the same thing happened," Carol said, "then I guess I would've gotten stitches. And I wouldn't have liked it, but you'd have held my hand and it wouldn't have been too bad. And then Alice would have done an ultrasound and we'd have seen our baby. And we'd come home and—go to bed. And start again tomorrow." Carol pulled her feet free from Daryl now and sat up. He was still looking out the window and into the street where absolutely no activity was taking place. She knew, now, that he wasn't looking at anything though. He was thinking. His eyes just needed somewhere to focus. "They're not coming back," Carol said softly. "And they're not coming for me. Or you."

"But what if they did?" Daryl asked. He looked at Carol, then, finally breaking the hold that the outside seemed to have on him. "We got a good thing here. Best thing I ever had in my whole life. I don't wanna lose it."

Carol shook her head at him.

"I don't want to lose it either," she said. "And—we're not going to. But that doesn't mean there aren't going to be bumps in the road. This was just a bump."

"Wouldn'ta just been a bump to Andrea if they'da killed her kid," Daryl pointed out.

"It would've been a very _big_ bump," Carol said. "But a bump nonetheless. And Andrea would've gotten through it. Michonne would've gotten Andrea through it. And that's what we'll all do. We'll get through whatever bumps we have to get through because that's what we do."

"They come here," Daryl said, "and I ain't letting 'em in. I ain't letting them get near you. I remember what them assholes looked like—slinking away like they were dogs being run outta the yard. I won't let 'em near you."

"And if you try to stop them, they'll just _shoot_ you," Carol said. She shook her head at Daryl. "We're not playing for flags anymore, Daryl. We're not getting flags and repeated trips to taming. Here? If we don't play by their rules, we get shot. And they're shooting to kill. Nobody's making it out of here alive unless _they_ say so. And what you said before? You were right. We've got a good thing here and we don't want to lose it. So we play by the rules."

"And just let 'em beat on you?" Daryl asked. "Because—I can't do that. They can shoot me, but they damn well better shoot me dead. I don't care. They start that shit here? I got nothing left to lose. I don't mean that much to me when it all comes down to it."

"No," Carol said. She got up from the chair she was sitting in and stood over Daryl. She positioned herself to sit on his lap and he moved his hands out of her way to make room for her. She lowered herself down and sat facing him. There was no way he could look away from her. He couldn't avoid her. She caught his hand and gathered it into her own in the same way that he'd been holding her foot earlier. "I want you to listen to me. Before all this happened? Way back before? There were things that—I didn't think I'd get through. But I got through them. When hell broke out around me? And suddenly I was alone with my daughter? I didn't think I'd live. But I lived. When I got captured and I—when I lost my daughter? I thought I'd die. But I didn't. And then I just—stopped having any expectation. I didn't expect to live and I didn't expect to die. I just didn't expect anything. I was just _existing_. I was just _surviving_. And then I met you. _You_. And I hadn't felt anything _good_ in so long, Daryl, that I didn't even know what good felt like anymore." She smiled at him. "But then you took me to a storage room—and I felt a little bit of good. And then we came here—and I felt a little more _good_. And now? We have a home. We have jobs. I never would have thought it, but I'm _pregnant_. And we're going to have a baby. You and me. And one of these days? The guards are moving out of here and the locks are going off the doors. And you and me? We're going to live a _real life_ together, Daryl. Whatever's left of it. Just like we said we would. So—I'm not going to _allow_ you to take that away from me because you're scared of losing it. I'm not going to let you throw it away, just because you're scared of losing it. You hear me? We play the game. And we play to _win_."

Daryl stared at her long enough that Carol almost looked away to break the contact between them. When he finally moved, it was to free his hand from hers and bring it up to touch her face. She closed her eyes to the welcomed sensation of his fingertips brushing her cheek.

"What if it ain't a game we can win?" Daryl asked. "Because—you gotta think that sometimes. What if we just don't win this one?"

"Then we lose together," Carol said. "But we're not losing right now. Hurricane Maggie comes back and she talks to us with new guards. _Our guards_. And we play the game. We don't let her find us here, keeping watch over the street like this. We let her find us here being _people_. Living _normal_ lives. Looking forward to a future that we're confident is going to happen. OK? Whatever happens, happens, but we don't ever let them pin it on us. We play the game."

Daryl nodded his head at her.

"Don't wanna lose you," he said.

"You're not going to," Carol said. "But—you can't leave me."

"Wouldn't," Daryl said. "Couldn't."

"Not even for your brother?" Carol asked. "Alice is going to get you in to see him soon. You're going to be expanding the clinic. She's going to bring him in. If he tries to talk you into something, then what?"

Daryl shook his head at her.

"Not even then," he said. "Merle's my brother but you're..."

Daryl stopped.

"I'm what?" Carol asked.

Daryl shook his head and laughed to himself. It wasn't a sincere laugh. There was a melancholy quality to it.

"I don't know," Daryl said. "My mate? My—companion? I don't like none of them words. Haven't since I heard them."

Carol's stomach twisted and she knew that, this time, she couldn't blame it on her body trying to adjust to the new life that it was still growing accustomed to supporting.

"What do you want me to be?" Carol asked.

Daryl shrugged his shoulders gently.

"Hell, I don't know," Daryl said. "Something that—don't even exist anymore. At least, not for animals, right?"

Carol swallowed and shook her head.

"No," she said. "No—it all still exists. And we're not animals. Remember? Animals—don't stay up at night worrying if people are going to come and kill them. They just keep living until they die. They don't worry like we do. We're not animals. They tried—they tried to turn us _into_ animals, but we're not animals. Daryl—it _all_ still exists. For us, too. What do you want me to be?"

Daryl chewed at his lip.

"If it was another place?" Daryl asked. "If, this weren't the world we were living in? Would you have married me? Been my wife?"

Carol relaxed a little, back onto Daryl's legs, and sensing the shift in her weight he moved his hands to wrap them around her. She felt them on her hips, steadying her, protecting her from toppling backward if that's where she might have been headed.

 _His instinct was to stop her from falling._

 _Her instinct was to stop him from jumping._

Carol nodded.

"I would have been _honored_ to be your wife," Carol said. "And I still would be."

Daryl nodded at her, but he didn't say anything else on the matter. He moved one hand enough to pat her thigh.

"Let's go to bed," he said. "They ain't coming tonight, but they'll come for work in the morning. And you and the baby gotta sleep."

Carol backed off of him and let him get to his feet. She started to move the chairs but he told her to leave them where they were and it seemed just as reasonable to her, at that moment, as moving them had.

"Would you want to marry me, Daryl?" Carol asked. He hummed in the affirmative.

"Just ain't a thing no more," Daryl said, taking her hand and tugging her toward the bedroom. Maybe this time they'd both sleep. "So I guess—it don't really matter."


	64. Chapter 64

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"Shouldn't Mr. Mamet be here?" Maggie asked, shifting in her seat. Alice knew the question was going to be the first one that the woman asked as soon as the three of them were gathered together, so she was prepared for it ahead of time. She was set to respond to the question the moment it was given voice.

"He doesn't have to be here," Alice said. "He briefed us on what he wants covered. He has more important work to do than attend a meeting like this where his presence isn't necessary for you to get the message."

 _History._

That's what Michonne had called it. Tension might have been a better word for it.

Whatever the name given to it, Alice saw it as clearly as if it had been a physical entity when Maggie sat forward in her chair.

"And what message is that, Alice?" Maggie asked, only somewhat trying to sweeten her tone for Samirah's benefit.

"Hands off the citizens," Alice said. "That's the gist of it. Especially Andrea, but all of the citizens here. You don't touch them. Your guards don't touch them—when we find you some suitable guards, of course."

"They have to be handled if they're out of control," Maggie said.

"No one's disputing that," Samirah intervened. "Just that one should be very careful to be sure that they're _out of control_ before they're punished."

"Attacked," Alice corrected. "What happened was nothing short of a series of attacks. And one of those attacks could have stalled the entire project for a significant amount of time."

"It was hardly an attack," Maggie argued, covering her frustration with a half-hearted laugh. "And you can dispute it if you want, but _Andrea_ had a weapon. The glass bottle was a potential weapon."

"Every day," Alice said, " _every_ single day, I let my assistant handle almost everything in the clinic and in my office. And there are things there that are _classified_ as _weapons_. To try and get Andrea the nutrients she's lacking because of morning sickness that's relentless? Milton regularly orders steak for her and other meats. She sits and she eats her food—with a knife—and no harm comes to anyone. A glass bottle _could be_ a weapon. We're not arguing that it couldn't. We're arguing that, in that moment, it wasn't being _used_ as a weapon. Yet she was still attacked and brutalized for possession of—a _beverage_."

"It's about correctly assessing the situation," Samirah offered. "About not using force unless it's necessary. We're building a peaceful community and violence by authority figures doesn't promote peace."

"Listen, I'm about to start coupling the max-prisoners that are now our citizens. We're about to start working with them to see if they'll be able to be introduced into the population. We don't need any nervous-Nellies around them. We don't need it around anyone here. Everyone here has suffered a great deal. Things some of us can't even imagine. One of the keys to undoing the past trauma these people have suffered—and yes, I call them people—is earning their trust," Alice said. "Your methods inspire the exact opposite of trust, and I shouldn't have to tell you that."

"That's right, Alice," Maggie said. "You shouldn't have to tell me my job. And you don't have to tell me my job. I'm doing what I was assigned to do."

"You weren't assigned to brutalize the citizens," Alice said. "I have four citizens that are traumatized by your little stunt the other day. All of them suffered injuries. Andrea was just one of them. And her injuries, alone, include a two inch gash on her foot, bruising over a good bit of her body, cracked ribs, and a mild concussion. Her crime was choosing to drink juice for breakfast."

"I think you're throwing around the word 'trauma' a little too easily for someone without any real knowledge of psychiatry or psychology," Maggie offered.

Alice laughed to herself. This time it was an attempt to relieve some of her own frustration.

"I know that she won't drink juice now," Alice said. "I know that—she had the other two bottles removed from her home and she wouldn't remove them herself. I know that she's refusing it, even though it was one of the things that she could usually keep down—and was something I was promoting, as her physician, for her medical benefit. I think that's enough for me to diagnose trauma as a laywoman."

"Maggie," Samirah said, massaging her temples in a clear show of how much she didn't want to be there mediating the conversation that, in Samirah's opinion, she thought they shouldn't even have ever been driven to have, "I think that the problem may be that you've worked too long inside the prison system and you haven't worked that much with rehabilitation."

"Because there is _no_ rehabilitation," Maggie said, directing her words toward Samirah now. "There isn't. They're wild and they're going to stay that way. They're _killers_. They kill for what they want. They don't respect our laws. They don't respect personal property. They don't respect anything except the laws of nature. Attack and kill. That's all they know. If you read anything by Kreegan, or if you heard him speak, you'd know that no matter what you give them and no matter what you do for them, it's never enough. They don't understand anything except force."

"And Kreegan is exactly who we're trying to disprove here," Alice said, not able to help herself from jumping in. "Listen—I know that you _hate_ Wilds. I know that you have had—some very bad experiences with Wilds. But they're people. And just like people, there's good and there's bad. That's what we're doing now. We're weeding out the ones who are good and can be _helped_ and the ones that are _bad_ and probably never were any good to society. We're proving that they _are_ human. And we're going to prove that they're _completely_ human. That they're—genetically human. And that they can act like humans too—if only they're not forced into situations where the only thing they can even possibly be driven by are the animal instincts that _all_ of us have inside us."

Samirah stood up, this time commanding that she be listened to. Alice looked at her, and Maggie did too, simply because her change in position demanded it.

"We ask everyone that comes through those gates to do the best that they can to ignore Kreegan's findings," Samirah said. "Until the project has reached later stages, we won't be able to release any official information, but we have a strong hypothesis that Kreegan's findings were incomplete, inconclusive, and incorrect. They were immoral and unethical. They were—the worst kind of pseudo-science that ever has been taken as fact. And Wave Thirty Three is going to prove that. It's going to—change the way the world looks at Wilds. But—to do that? We have to put Kreegan and his findings aside and start from scratch. Milton Mamet's experiment will put Kreegan's to bed."

"You have a lot of confidence in one man's vision that science is wrong," Maggie said.

"I have a lot of confidence in a man that says he can prove what I—what I already _feel_ to be true," Samirah said.

"Sometimes—we all learn that what we believe, and what we feel, is wrong," Maggie said. "I just hope you don't find out the hard way."

"If Milton Mamet is wrong," Samirah said, "then thousands of Wilds will be destroyed in prisons. Everyone here, in Woodbury, will be executed. The Wilds that remain out there? In the Wild? It'll be open season on hunting them _again_."

"Something, if I recall correctly, you were in very strong support of the first time it happened," Alice pointed out to Maggie. Samirah put her hands out, a palm toward each of them.

"That much loss? _That's_ the hard way for me," Samirah said. "I can't think of anything harder than going to bed at night and... and knowing that these people were—just killed. But...if it happens when the project is complete, because the hypothesis was wrong? It's going to be a lot easier than living with the knowledge that it happened just because of _fear_ and _anger_ and unbridled _hatred_."

"It's no secret you want me off the project," Maggie said. "You want me out of here. If you had your way? I'd lose my job. I'd have lost it a long time ago. Alice would've seen to that herself."

"We don't want you off the project," Samirah said. She shook her head at Alice when Alice drew in the breath that she fully intended to use to say that she wasn't of that mindset. She would be happy to see Maggie go simply because she knew her current view of Wilds. "We don't. Because—if you come out of here a believer? Then there's nobody that isn't going to see the light when we expose Kreegan's findings for what they are. But we're going to need you to do your job. And doing your job, means that you have to do what the project entails."

Maggie crossed her arms across her chest and sat back in her chair. She bobbed her foot quickly and took a moment to do something akin to counting the ceiling tiles.

"I'm dedicated to my job," she said. "And doing what's best for the government. Doing what's best for the country. I'm entitled to my opinions—but I can put them aside to work."

"That's all we're asking," Samirah said. "And—we're bringing in another psychiatrist of our own that will be checking in with the citizens too. Just—so they'll see both of you. They'll talk to both of you. You won't be pushed out. They'll be separate evaluations."

"Because you don't trust me to do a good job," Maggie said.

"Checks and balances," Samirah responded.

"There's no other system of checks and balances," Maggie pointed out. "Not from what I can see. You have one primary physician. Who's the scientific team that's working alongside Mr. Mamet?"

"Not that anything has to be justified to you," Samirah said, "but Mr. Mamet has a team. It's a team provided for him by the one true power. He's overseeing everything, as you know, and Mr. Mamet works closely with him."

"And medical?" Maggie asked, looking directly at Alice. "You're doing this alone. Who's to say that you won't change data?"

"All my important tests will be done with a team," Alice said. "And they'll be done blind. Those evaluating the results won't know who they're for or where they came from. The rest of what I'm doing? I'm not going to sabotage the program. But if I were? I think things like death would give me away." Alice smiled at Maggie and shifted in her own chair. "But—if you know of anyone who's sympathetic to the cause and looking to join my team, I could always use other doctors to assist me. It's just, as you know, there wasn't a line out the door of doctors who thought they could put aside everything they knew from Kreegan to treat Wilds outside of the prison system. It's not exactly a glamorous position."

And it was true. Alice hadn't asked to be the only doctor working on the project. In fact, with everything that entailed, and also with the outside commitment of working with Milton and Samirah to make sure everything would _keep_ moving according to plan, it was a lot on her plate and she'd have gladly taken some assistance. However, it had turned out that there weren't that many doctors that were willing to take the role. Some doctors wouldn't work with Wilds at all. The ones that would often worked in the prison system and felt at least a little degraded by that. They saw themselves as glorified veterinarians. There just wasn't a line of people who wanted to work with Wilds and admit that they were treating them like humans.

In short, one of the doctors that she'd previously worked with equated what Alice was doing to trying to work with mad cows and believing that they could be reasoned with. The same doctor suggested that Milton Mamet, for even attempting such a project, was nothing short of a mad-scientist doing something as ridiculous—and potentially dangerous—as Dr. Frankenstein toying around with electricity and body parts in a lab. Anyone who joined the project, he'd suggested, and really believed that what they were doing was sensible and meaningful, had to be at least a little off their rocker if they weren't going to be discredited as being simply incredibly stupid.

It made her, though conveniently well-named for her position, someone who was choosing to co-exist with the mad and adopt their habits.

But then, maybe she was already just as mad as anyone else there.

When Maggie relaxed back into her chair, it was clear that she had nothing to offer Alice as an argument and she had no names of anyone who wanted the position of working alongside her.

"You've talked to Mr. Mamet," Maggie said with a sigh. "That means you know what's going to happen. How do things change for me?"

"You continue to see the citizens," Samirah said, "just as you agreed to do in the beginning. Separately they'll be evaluated by another psychiatrist and all evaluations will be turned into the government office for Milton's team. You'll be assigned guards that will be there to protect you if you should need protection..."

"But they're not attack dogs," Alice interjected. "They're trained to control the citizens should they _need_ it. They're trained to transport them from one location to another if you should need to move them for any reason. But—they won't _attack_ them. They won't be any more forceful than is absolutely necessary, not even if you command it."

"Do I get any form of self-protection?" Maggie asked.

"No," Samirah said. "I'm afraid not. Not after what happened."

"You could wear a vest, if it makes you more comfortable. Whatever gear you want to wear for protection. But we won't give you a weapon. We don't want anyone shot for sneezing," Alice said. She got a warning look from Samirah.

Maggie sighed and nodded her head.

"Anything else?" She asked.

"You don't have any interactions with certain citizens without me being present," Alice said. "Those who are pregnant, who have medical conditions, or who otherwise might need my assistance. Those whose stress level needs to be monitored. You don't have contact with them without my presence."

"The citizens of Woodbury trust Alice," Samirah said, seeming to anticipate Maggie's coming argument. "And we need that. They need that. She won't intervene unless it's necessary, but her presence will be reassuring to the citizens."

"Does Melodye have to have you present?" Maggie asked. "Because I'm not stupid enough, _Alice_ , to not know who the other psychiatrist will be."

"If that would make you happy," Alice said, "it can be arranged."

"Fine," Maggie said.

"Oh," Alice offered with a smile. "And Milton wanted me to tell you that—one very important stipulation is that you never _ever_ have contact with Andrea without clearance again. Even if—you see her walking down the street, and she's headed out the gate? You get someone to give you clearance before you so much as address her. You stay away from all my mothers to be without clearance. _All_ of them. But—Milton said Andrea especially. Under penalty of law. I'm sure you understand."


	65. Chapter 65

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"So they were just hunting Wilds," T-Dog explained. "Straight up—guns and camo. Some real redneck shit. No offense."

Daryl laughed to himself.

"Don't worry about it," Daryl said. "I know I'm a redneck. Was borned that way and never grew out of it. So the hunting—but that still don't tell me nothing about this Maggie woman."

"She was a supporter of the hunting," T-Dog said. "She was like one of those soapbox people. It's a good idea. You know? Kill 'em all, kind of thing. But Alice..."

"Let me guess," Daryl said, "she was more the pacifist? Tree hugging hippie?"

"Pretty much," T-Dog said. "Wild-hugging hippie. From what Michonne told me? Milton said that they ended up locked in this heated debate thing. Some shit went public. One saying kill the Wilds because the Wilds were killing everybody. And one saying that locking them up and rehabilitating them was the way to go."

"Were we killing everybody?" Daryl asked. "I mean, my hands ain't clean for shit, but I didn't just run around clubbing kids to death. I don't know about you. I don't think I killed nobody that weren't trying just as damn hard to kill me back."

T-Dog stopped what he was doing and mopped at his face with his shirt. They were going to expand the clinic and, to do that, they had to clear the area around where they were expanding and dig out a foundation. There were some other projects going on around Woodbury so Daryl and T-Dog had volunteered to go on their own and get a jump start on the clinic work. It was dirty work, and it was hard, but it was the kind of work that Daryl liked. It was quiet and it was easy to see their progress.

"Milton told Michonne that a bunch of Wilds apparently busted in on Maggie's farm," T-Dog said. "She lived out in the middle of nowhere practically, and this bunch of Wilds came up. I don't know why, but they let them stay for a while. Rehabilitation on a small level or something. Put them to work on the farm. Anyway, some of the Wilds apparently just ended up killing some of her family."

"So the logical damn assumption is that, because some damn body went fool, it means that every damn Wild is just gonna up and kill you," Daryl said.

"You said it, man," T-Dog responded. "Changed her view entirely on Wilds and rehabilitation attempts. Anyway, she put in her report that she feared for her damn life with Andrea and that—well, basically she suggested she was a threat and they should consider removing her from the project and euthanizing her or some shit."

"And Michonne told you all this?" Daryl asked.

"And more," T-Dog responded. "She says Milton doesn't tell Andrea hardly anything she asks, but he'll tell her things as long as she catches him right over breakfast. It's all on his mind and he's kinda—talking to himself or whatever—and she just asks him what's going on and he just tells her."

"So—what else'd she say?" Daryl asked.

"I mean not too much," T-Dog said. "Not too much important. Just that with the prisons filling up, you know, the people were starting to get restless. Like—money's gotta go into the prisons to keep them running, but people were reading books by this guy. This scientist or whatever. And the books were saying that—well, Wilds are animals."

"We know," Daryl said. T-Dog nodded his head at him and hummed.

"But like—they're paying taxes to keep the prisons going and then it's like—if we're just animals and, worse yet, if we're animals that aren't good to ever come outta the prisons, then what the hell are they paying to keep us around for?" T-Dog said.

"So kill every damn one of us," Daryl said. "And, I'm guessing, reopen hunting season."

T-Dog hummed.

"So they got some kind of voting coming up," T-Dog said. "All "give the people what they want" style. You know? And it's like a year or two years or something and they're voting on things that the public wants. One of the things on the ballots is shutting down the prisons so..."

"So killing all the prisoners," Daryl said.

"Or releasing them as citizens into communities like this," T-Dog said. "Enough of Milton's experiment has to be done to release some real good evidence on our behalf before then or..." He stopped what he was doing, rested the shovel he was using in one hand, and used the other to draw his finger across his throat like it was a knife. Daryl shuddered a little, but nodded his understanding.

"And that depends on us," Daryl offered.

"Us and whatever the hell they have planned for us," T-Dog confirmed.

"You see Michonne a lot?" Daryl asked, seeking to change the subject because he didn't like the way that thinking about all of it made his stomach feel.

"Every day, just about," T-Dog said. "I've got a pass to go over there whenever I want. But she comes to the house too. It's to give the whole idea that—if we wanted to have a kid? We'd still have the opportunity to do that, even though she's living with Milton and Andrea."

"But you don't want to have a kid?" Daryl asked.

"No," T-Dog said. "I don't. And I don't think Michonne does either. But if she did? She wouldn't be going about it any traditional way, if you catch my drift."

"But you like being alone?" Daryl asked.

T-Dog laughed a little to himself and got Daryl's attention enough to let him know, with a gesture, that they were coming around with water. Daryl dropped his shovel, sure to find it right where it lay, and followed T-Dog down to the edge of their workspace to accept the water that was offered to them in bottles. They were glass bottles. The kind that they could wash and use over and over. The kind that could get them killed if Hurricane Maggie had anything to say about it.

Once they'd acquired their bottles and thanked the woman who brought them around, Daryl followed T-Dog toward a spot where the roof of the clinic cast down enough shade to let them sit and cool down. He waited, until they were both seated, to repeat his question to T-Dog.

"You like being alone here? Not matched up?" Daryl asked.

"I like it better than I liked prison," T-Dog said. "I guess the only downfall is I know that everyone else here is getting laid and I'm sort of flying solo. But—Milton keeps me up in everything I want. There's nothing I can't have within reason. And besides that, he has my house cleaned by one of the people that works here. I guess he figures that without Michonne I might need some help. Basically, it means I'm living like a king just because I'm as celibate as I've been for—I don't even know how long."

Daryl laughed to himself.

"I guess it ain't that bad, then," Daryl said. "Could be worse."

"What about you?" T-Dog asked. "Regretting the whole matched up life yet?"

"Not hardly," Daryl said. "Best damn thing I could have. Hell—I like everything about this place. Like Carol. Like my house and like my life that happens in the house. Like that I got a kid on the way. Like this job, even."

"You like this job?" T-Dog asked.

"You don't?" Daryl countered.

"It's not the best job in the world," T-Dog said.

"None of 'em is, I reckon," Daryl said. "But it's a good job. They tell me I'm getting paid. I'm making things happen. Things I get to see happen. Hungry when I sit down to eat and—tired when I lay down to sleep. About the best I can get."

"Living the dream," T-Dog teased.

"Damn near close to it," Daryl responded with a laugh.

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"I don't think there's going to be any trouble," Alice said. "But—if there is? I meant what I said. You just run for the fence. Get out of the way. Don't worry about me. They'll come for me."

Carol made her understanding clear to Alice one more time. She'd had to already agree to Alice's stipulations twice to even be allowed to accompany her this far. Now, unguarded as something of a test, they were both inside the high-security fences of Woodbury and they were headed straight for the house where Carol knew Daryl's brother was being temporarily held.

Alice wanted to assert that they had nothing to fear from the so-called wildest of the Wilds, and the only way that she could do that was to give up being hypocritical. If she had nothing to fear, she didn't need a guard to enter the area and interact with them. Of course, in truth, she wasn't one hundred percent sure that they _didn't_ have anything to fear, so she hadn't wanted Carol coming with her. But Carol had finally won her over with the promise that she would get away if she needed to. After all, running was one of the things that Wilds, tamed or otherwise, did best.

They walked up the house and Alice fumbled around with the ring of keys that she carried. She found the one she was looking for and she knocked at the door of the house. To keep the porch from slowing her down, just in case, Carol waited on the ground beyond the steps.

"Dr. Walker," Alice announced. "Here to get you. I'm opening the door. Please step away from it."

She slipped the key into the lock, turned it, and then opened the door. She swung it open a little and then she stepped inside. Carol waited, shifting her weight back and forth, because she didn't know what might be happening once the woman had disappeared from view.

Merle might be putting up a fight. If he'd found a weapon, he might have killed Alice by now. She might find that he'd taken a different route and, like the man that had gutted himself on the fence, chosen that he'd rather just opt out of this life entirely.

Carol didn't have to chew on her anxiety long, though. Alice emerged from the house again and, right behind her, Merle came with a large bundle that he held against his chest. By the time he made it down the steps, abandoning his little house, Carol realized that he'd apparently wrapped everything he considered "his" up in a sheet to take with him. He didn't realize that they were constantly getting supplies here—or maybe old habits just died hard.

"I know you," Merle said, glancing in Carol's direction once his feet were on the dirt.

"Carol," Carol offered.

Merle smirked at her. He made a sound that landed somewhere between a growl and a hum.

"You shackin' up with my lil' brother," Merle mused. Carol didn't like the choice of words, but she couldn't argue the truth of the statement, so she simply nodded her head. "When I get to see my lil' brother, doc?" Merle asked. "Or you just shittin' me about that?"

"Keep on behaving," Alice said, "and I won't be shitting you about a thing, Merle. You'll see him and—before you know it? You'll be out of this enclosure and in the main part of Woodbury."

"Glory, glory, halle-fuckin'-lujah," Merle responded smartly. "And when the hell do we get freedom?"

"Soon," Alice said. "I'm your doctor, and right now your escort, but I'm not the Governor."

Alice was guiding them. Merle walked along behind her, hugging his possessions to his chest, while Carol walked quietly to the side of both of them. He looked different than the last time she'd seen him. He looked better. Alice had been treating his infection and she'd gotten him a better cuff to cover the stump of his arm. Carol knew, too, that she'd promised him a prosthetic of his choosing as long as he behaved.

And he seemed to be holding up his end of the deal.

The wildest of the Wilds, it seemed, didn't need quite as much as their guards had suggested they might. They needed medicine to cure their illnesses. They needed food and water to keep them from starvation and thirst. And they needed enough compassion to be reminded that, somewhere deep down inside, they were still human.

Because they were just as human as anyone else.

But the guards hadn't learned yet that violence is very often answered with violence.

"You got me a lil' sweet one like my brother's?" Merle asked, glancing over his shoulder at Carol while he spoke to Alice. "Mmmm? Doc? You got me a lil' sweet one like her?"

"I think you'll like her," Alice responded, ignoring Merle's manner of speaking. "She's beautiful. Still healing from some abuse in the prison, but beautiful."

"How damn crazy is the hell-cat?" Merle asked. "'Cause she's comin' outta max I know for damn sure that there's some fuckin' screws loose in there, Doc."

Alice laughed to herself.

"No more than you have loose," she responded. "She knows you're coming and, like you, she agreed to play by the rules in the interest of gaining some freedoms and getting out of the pen."

"How'd it work for you, sweet cheeks?" Merle asked, turning his attention to Carol. "You like it? You like gettin' penned up with my brother?" Carol didn't respond to him. She wasn't sure how to. She felt that, no matter what she said, she was going to get heckled. And if she was quiet, too, she was going to get heckled. That's what men like Merle did. She might as well not waste her breath or her energy. As she suspected, her silence didn't make him stop. "Yeah—you like my baby brother. Good thing you didn't know me first. Woulda been beggin' them to pen you up with me. My brother? He's the sweet one. Always has been. But—ol' Merle? He's the one'll show you a good time. Show you a real good time if you got penned up with me."

Carol tried not to make the face that she felt naturally inclined to make. It was difficult to believe that this man was Daryl's brother.

They were living proof of the nature versus nurture theory in Carol's mind.

"I promote showing ladies a good time," Alice announced, stopping their forward progress in front of another house, "but you remember the rules. You do remember them, don't you?" She turned to face Merle and he stared at her and sucked his teeth.

"Hands off unless everybody's wantin' to play," Merle offered. Alice nodded. "Weren't no rule you had to teach me, Doc. I knowed that one already. See—that's something I don't do." He laughed to himself. "Never needed to. And—I don't figure it's a real good time for nobody if she ain't into it."

"Keep that attitude," Alice said.

"But you said she's into it?" Merle asked. "Wants to play and all—and that's part of playin' this here game?"

"Just because she's agreed to the project doesn't mean it's open season," Alice said. "You still ask."

Merle laughed.

"Aye, aye," he responded.

"And we don't fight," Alice said. "No physical violence."

"Not if she don't attack my ass," Merle said. "I ain't gonna beat her, but I ain't gonna let her jump my ass neither."

"I don't think she will," Alice said. "But I'll tell you the same thing I told her, just in case. If something does happen? Restrain her the best you can and pick up the phone. Call through as an emergency. We'll send a guard to separate you."

"Any damn thing else, Doc?" Merle asked.

"Good luck?" Alice offered. She laughed to herself. "Just—maybe just one more thing...it's a little thing. Really—you probably wouldn't notice it at all, but it bears mentioning."

"What the hell's wrong with her?" Merle asked, obviously made tense by the fact that they were outside the house when he was getting some piece of possibly important information.

"Nothing," Alice said. "She's deaf."

"Deaf?" Merle asked.

"It means she can't hear," Alice said. "It's one of the things that made me sure she was really going to work well with you."

"I know what the hell deaf means," Merle said. "But—I ain't deaf."

"Congratulations," Alice said. "She communicates well. It's nothing to worry about. A little patience and a little practice and—you won't even notice it."

She waved at Merle and led him up the steps to the door. She knocked on the door, announced her presence as she had when they'd gotten to Merle's old house, and then she looked back at Merle who was standing there and looking the most concerned that he had since he'd come out of the house with his bundle. Alice unlocked the door and turned the knob.

"Her name's Sadie," Alice told Merle. "And I'm sure—you two are really gonna hit it off."


	66. Chapter 66

**AN: Here we go, another chapter.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"Carol, Melodye. Mel, Carol," Alice said, introducing Carol to the blonde that Carol knew, from previous conversations, was Alice's partner. The woman was thin enough that Carol might have believed she'd just come from the prisons and that, while there, she'd been subjected to something like a punishment by starvation, but it wasn't true. Carol knew that Melodye, like Alice, had been in safe zones since the turn.

Carol shook hands with Melodye and offered her a greeting which Melodye warmly echoed.

"Al's told me a lot about you," Melodye said.

Carol swallowed and looked at Alice before she looked back at Melodye.

"She's told me a lot about you, too," Carol offered. It wasn't exactly true. Alice had told her a few things about the woman, but she didn't know enough to fill a decent sized sheet of paper. She couldn't be sure, either, what Alice might have told Melodye about her. They chatted, as was natural, throughout the days when Carol followed Alice around, but most of what they talked about had to do with the project and Carol's experiences in prison as they contrasted with Alice's experiences as someone who had never been, as Carol was deemed, Wild.

Melodye just smiled at Carol, though, and gave Alice a quick sideways glance.

"It's me that should probably be worried, then," Melodye said. "There's no telling what Alice would think she should tell you about me."

Carol's stomach flipped and she wondered, for just a moment, if the woman might have the ability to read her mind. She decided, though, that more than likely she was just trying to be friendly—and the friendly thing to do would be to assure Carol that Alice had said nothing damaging about her.

"All she's told me were wonderful things," Carol offered.

"I hear you're one of the most valuable players in Wave Thirty Three," Melodye said. "I know—that you've already done a lot to get the project moving. And to keep it moving."

Carol felt her cheeks grow a little warm. She was pretty sure that she could guess what Melodye might be hinting at, but she was also certain that she could trust the woman to keep her secret. Giving Carol away for some of her earlier fibs, after all, would put Alice at risk.

"I'm doing what I can," Carol offered with a smile.

"And you're expecting?" Melodye asked.

Carol nodded her head. It was still something she was adjusting to. It was still something that, when it was mentioned, made her feel at least a little unlike herself. She was sure she was going to grow used to the idea of being pregnant—and eventually of having another child—but it hadn't fully sunk in for her yet. It still seemed like something that simply wasn't going to come to fruition.

"Barely," Carol offered.

"Barely counts," Alice interrupted. "Everything has to start somewhere. Babies especially. Mel? I told you about Andrea?"

"Of course," Melodye said.

"Well, you'll get to meet her. She and Michonne are coming in—any time now, really."

Carol furrowed her brows at Alice.

"Why?" She asked.

"She thinks something might be wrong," Alice said. "So I thought—better safe than sorry. I told her to come in and we'll just check things out."

"But you don't think anything's wrong?" Carol asked.

Alice shrugged.

"I can't say there isn't," Alice said. "But it was Michonne who called me and she didn't sound really worried about it. She just said that Andrea said that—something didn't quite feel right and she'd like me to just check on things. So that's what I'm doing. I'm checking on things."

"You know Andrea well?" Melodye asked, directing the question to Carol.

Carol glanced at Alice. She wondered how much she was supposed to tell Melodye. She already knew that Melodye was working with the project now, and that she'd be working as one of the therapists that they had to meet with, but she didn't know when her evaluations actually started—and she didn't know really what she should and shouldn't say in those meetings. Still, Melodye was Alice's partner and Carol had the suspicion that she wasn't going to want anything to go wrong with the project.

And admitting friendship, after all, couldn't possibly suggest that Carol was something less than human.

"We've been friends a long time," Carol said. "Since Andrea and Michonne were captured."

Melodye nodded her head. She might have been agreeing with Carol. She might have already known this. Or she might simply be indicating that she heard Carol and she understood her.

Carol realized, in that moment, how anxious she felt over the very idea of being evaluated and that, if she was really going to prove that she was a level-headed human being, she was going to have to get those feelings under control. She sucked in a breath and let it out, as imperceptibly as possible, and offered a smile to Melodye.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I think—I just don't feel great. I think I'm a little worried about Andrea and I didn't expect—I didn't expect to feel this way. I didn't expect to be affected."

Alice laughed.

"Mel, you have to excuse Carol," Alice said. "I'm still working out her hormone dosage. Unfortunately, Carol's a little side experiment of my own. Some days I think I've got it, and others I think I haven't got it just right."

Carol shook her head at Alice.

"Whatever you're doing is working," Carol said. "I asked you to help me get pregnant, and you did. I asked you to help me stay that way and—I'm still pregnant. So I'm not going to complain. I just..."

"Need a little air?" Alice asked. Carol nodded her head enthusiastically and Alice gestured toward the door. "Let's step outside," Alice said. "I want to check on things out there and I'll keep you company. Make sure no one bothers you for being _unattended_."

Carol accepted Alice's excuse to go outside as just what it was—an excuse. She didn't have any interest in going outside to "check on" anything. She was going outside to steal a few moments of privacy with Carol without having to outright say that's what she was doing. It wasn't the first time that Alice had offered to escort Carol somewhere that she could have easily gone with her medical pass.

Alice led Carol out and Carol followed her. They walked a few steps away from the building and Alice stopped and leaned against the outside wall.

"You can breathe," Alice said. "You're not on trial just because Melodye's in the office. She'll probably be around a lot. Any time she's got a break she's liable to drop by."

"How do I know when I _am_ on trial?" Carol asked.

"Melodye doesn't want to put you back in prison," Alice said. "She doesn't want you euthanized or exterminated or whatever they're calling it these days. She's giving everyone more than a fair shot to get out of here—at least via her recommendation. Unless you're running around and ripping people's throats out with your teeth? Melodye is going to see you as a perfectly normal human being."

"A human being who gets lightheaded having a simple conversation," Carol offered with a laugh.

"You're nervous," Alice said. "And I didn't entirely lie about your hormone level. I'm sorry. I'm working on it. I really am."

Carol laughed and shook her head.

"I'm not bothered," she assured Alice. "Sure, sometimes I feel like I'm considering crying over something that I know is really stupid. Or—overreacting to something. But it's not ruining my life." Carol hummed to herself. "Really? To be honest? It's been a long time since I could say that. But—this isn't ruining my _life_. And I..." She laughed to herself. "I have a life now."

"A busy one," Alice offered. "I didn't think it would be ruining it, but I'll get it sorted. It won't be too long, though, before I think I'll feel comfortable taking you off the hormone treatments. Weaning you down. I think the pregnancy will do fine on its own. And if we start to see trouble? We'll do what we can to fix it."

"It's safe to talk to Melodye?" Carol asked, ignoring Alice's words.

Alice nodded her head.

"It's safe to talk to Melodye. Her reports go straight to the top, and I'm not going to say she's going to lie, but I'm going to say that—it's safe to talk to her," Alice said.

"But not to—you know who?" Carol asked.

"Maybe it will be," Alice said, shrugging her shoulders. "Honestly? I don't know what they'll ask or what they'll be looking for. Maybe—it'll be safe to tell her everything she wants to know without even embellishing the truth. But—I'm going to say that you should use your best judgment. If something doesn't feel right?"

"Lie?" Carol asked.

"Pick a comfortable answer," Alice said. She shifted her weight and sighed. "They're supposed to evaluate you, but they're also supposed to help you. In the beginning? Before Kreegan got started with everything? This whole idea of Wild wasn't the same as it is now. Our whole concept of Wild changed when he started publishing his findings. Before? It was a psychological thing. And that's who handled it—psychiatrists." Alice shook her head. "It doesn't matter. It's not what it used to be. The point is that—they're supposed to help you as much as they're supposed to be interviewing you and evaluating your answers. I don't know, anymore, what you-know-who wants. I don't know what she intends to do. I do know, though, that Melodye is actually interested in hearing what you have to say. And she wants—she's willing to offer you some help, if she thinks she can. If you want it."

"I just need to know that she's _safe_ ," Carol said.

Alice nodded her head.

"She's safe," Alice offered.

"Can I pass that on?" Carol asked. "Can I tell the others that she's safe? Or is that a breach of confidence?"

"You think they should know?" Alice asked.

"I think they need to know," Carol responded. "I think—we all need to know what we're up against here. Every step of the way. You think that you want this to be a success? You want us all to get out of here alive? Well, there's nobody here that wants that more than we do."

Alice laughed quietly to herself.

"Yeah," she said. "I guess you're right. Tell the others, but tell everyone to be discreet about it. I'll pass it around too. Milton knows Melodye is my partner and he knows she's sympathetic to the cause. That's why he let her join the project and why he thought she'd be a good idea for a sort of second opinion. I guess—the Governor probably knows, too, that she's at least a little biased. Maggie is too, though. But still..."

"But still, don't let it get out too much that _we_ know that," Carol said.

"Exactly," Alice agreed with a sigh. "I wish the whole damn thing were over with already."

Carol's stomach twisted a little. She was collecting bits and pieces of information about the project from Alice. Slowly, she was coming to understand some things. She knew, though, that all of her knowledge was limited by Alice's knowledge. She could never know more than Alice knew—and even Alice didn't know everything about Wave Thirty Three.

The one thing Carol did know, though, was that it wasn't going to be over soon. She knew that, before they could earn their freedom, Milton had to finish his experiment. And before his experiment could be complete, there was going to have to be a veritable population boom within Woodbury.

Carol knew that, even if she didn't fully understand all the reasons _why_.

"Do you think Andrea's baby's OK?" Carol asked.

"I hope so," Alice said.

"I didn't ask what you hoped, Alice," Carol said softly, hoping they were as friendly as she felt like they were and she wasn't reading the woman entirely wrong. "I asked what you thought."

"I think that Andrea was treated very badly a couple of days ago," Alice said. "I think that it's possible that it negatively impacted the fetus. But—I also think that Andrea is an expectant mother. An expectant mother who was treated very badly a couple of days ago. It could be a case of nerves or something like that just as much as it could be an actual problem." Carol nodded her head. "What would you think?" Alice asked.

"Me?" Carol asked. Alice nodded her head. "You're asking me what I think? I mean—like you want my _medical_ opinion?"

Alice shook her head.

"Like I want your opinion as a mother," Alice said. "Do you think, if you were in Andrea's position, that it's possible that there really isn't anything wrong?"

Carol shrugged.

"I think I'd be worried," Carol said. "I think—I'd be really...really...over-vigilant. About everything. I think I'd just want..."

"What?" Alice nudged when Carol stopped to try to pick the words that she most wanted to use.

"I'd just want someone to check," Carol said. "Someone to be sure. Someone to..."

"Hold your hand and tell you it's OK?" Alice asked.

Carol nodded.

"To put it in the simplest terms, yes," Carol admitted.

Alice sighed and nodded.

"Good thing it's in my job description," Alice said. "I think I see them coming. Come on—let's go and get everything set up."


	67. Chapter 67

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"I'm going to make sure he's OK," Alice assured Andrea. "But first I just want to make sure you're OK."

Carol stood back a decent distance. Melodye sat quietly in the corner on a chair and Carol wasn't even sure if Andrea and Michonne had noticed the woman yet. Andrea had one thing on her mind and that was being assured that her baby was fine. Michonne seemed preoccupied, but Carol assumed that much of her concern was owing to the fact that Andrea was so worked up.

"Your heart is pounding," Alice said, giving up on trying to listen to Andrea's heartbeat. "I'm not going to get anything accurate out of you until you calm down a little. Here," she said, offering Andrea the sheet that she'd brought, "shimmy out of your pants and get comfortable."

Rather than being bothered by the prospect of a thorough examination, Carol thought Andrea looked relieved. She couldn't blame her. Honestly, if she was in her position, she'd have given Alice permission to do with her what she pleased as long as she told her what she wanted to know. Michonne helped Andrea, who was still reduced to hobbling around while she tried not to put too much weight on her foot, and she finally got her situated for Alice to examine her.

"Everything looks fine," Alice said, finishing up her examination as everyone else in the room seemed to be holding their breath. "Everything related to the baby, I mean. Your cervix looks good. It doesn't look like you're having any problems. There's no indication of anything. I'm going to see if I can pick up a heartbeat."

Carol felt Andrea's relief when she heard the familiar sound of the fast-paced heartbeat. She was pretty sure that if Alice listened, at that moment, to Andrea's heartbeat, she would have heard it slowing down rapidly. Andrea relaxed against the table.

"So he's OK?" She asked.

"Fine," Alice said. "Perfectly fine. At least, as far as I can tell." When she was entirely finished with her examination, Alice walked around to stand beside Andrea again and Andrea sat up to make the conversation a little more comfortable. "What got you in here?" Alice asked. "Just paranoid or was there something concrete that made you think it wasn't right?"

"It just didn't _feel_ right," Andrea said. "I didn't feel right. Now—I just feel silly."

Alice laughed.

"Don't feel silly. Ever. I'd rather every one of my patients page me ten times a day with a worry than let something go unsaid that could be an indication of a problem. You told me on the phone that you didn't feel right. So what does that mean?" Alice asked.

Andrea glanced at Michonne and then back at Alice.

"I wasn't sick this morning," Andrea said. "I was queasy, but I wasn't sick. Everything hurts, and that includes my back and—everything. It just felt _off_."

"I saw your back," Alice said. "And, honestly? I'd be more surprised if everything _didn't_ hurt. And maybe your morning sickness is getting better. Or maybe your body just decided that you had enough going on right now and it thought—it would be nice to give you a break."

"Are you mad that I made a big deal over nothing?" Andrea asked.

Alice shook her head.

"You didn't know it was nothing," Alice said. "And—your current circumstance aside? Your back hurting _could_ be an indication of something that I want to know about. A change in the way your pregnancy is going _could_ be an indication of something I need to be aware of. It just so happens that this time? He's just fine and it appears to be nothing. But—I don't want that to stop you from telling me if it happens again or you feel that way again. I'm just _glad_ it's nothing."

"Being worried about your baby is the sign of a good mother," Melodye offered, getting to her feet. As she stepped forward, Carol could see an expression cross Andrea's face that let her know that the woman hadn't been aware of Melodye's presence.

"Andrea has always been a good mother," Michonne said.

Carol didn't miss the change in Michonne's stance. She stepped forward, just a half a step, but it was enough that her body language made clear what she was thinking. Carol had seen it before.

 _Michonne wasn't threatening anyone, but she was prepared at that moment to protect Andrea, if that's what she had to do._

Melodye was a stranger to them both and they'd been through a lot in a couple of days. The fatigue of their experiences was on both women's faces, as were the bruises and cuts and other battle scars of their recent experiences.

Alice must have sensed it too. She quickly intervened to introduce Melodye and bring her into the realm of friend instead of leaving her as a possible foe.

"Michonne, Andrea? This is Mel. This is my partner," Alice said. Both women clearly relaxed a little. Michonne took a breath that was deep enough that it was visible to Carol.

"Andrea was always a good mother," Michonne repeated, softening her tone this time. Instead of threatening anyone, this time she reached and took Andrea's hand. Andrea smiled softly at her and kissed her hand as a response.

"You were some of the ones that lost your child," Melodye said. "And I'm so sorry to hear—to hear all of it. They said the children were taken to be kept safe, but it seems that many of them must have already been safe or they wouldn't have even been alive in the wild to be captured."

"Neither of us would've been captured if it hadn't been for Andrew," Michonne said. "Andrea could've gotten away from them but she went back for him. That's how she lost enough time for them to catch her. That's how they were able to get her."

"And you?" Melodye asked.

"They shot Andrea," Michonne said. "They took Andrew, and they took Andrea. After they shot her. I _let_ them take me."

"Al, the baby's a boy?" Melodye asked, gesturing a hand toward Andrea.

Alice shrugged her shoulders and shook her head at the same time.

"We don't know," she said. "Not yet. But boy or girl, whatever we call it has just as much chance of being right as the other."

"I think it's nicer to call the baby something," Andrea said. "I like—I prefer—to think of the baby as a boy instead of just _baby_."

"She called our son a girl until he was born," Michonne said.

Melodye laughed quietly and then offered both of them a warm smile.

"Well, congratulations," she said. "I'm glad that—he's doing well. And I'm sorry about what happened to you. And what happened to your son."

Not regarding her as anyone suspicious, both Michonne and Andrea quietly thanked Melodye. It was Carol that broke in, next, to let them in on what they would eventually find out. She felt like, if nobody told them, they'd feel betrayed when they discovered Melodye's role because she showed up at their house to evaluate them. And feeling betrayed, Carol knew, wouldn't help them when it came down to winning her over—if that's what any of them really had to do.

"Melodye's going to be working with the project," Carol said quickly. She smiled as convincingly as she could when she realized she'd suddenly gotten everyone's attention. She was accustomed to having quite so many eyes on her at any one time unless they belonged to guards that were hoping to catch her for one imagined crime or another. "She's going to be one of the psychiatrists that's evaluating us."

Andrea backed up as much as she could in her current position. Michonne's earlier tension returned. Carol thought that, maybe, she should have picked her words more carefully to break the news to them.

Melodye handled it, though, by simply putting her hands up in mock surrender and offering the same smile as before to the women.

"I'm part of the psychiatric evaluation team, yes," Melodye said. "Milton hired me to give a second opinion. I'll be sitting down and talking to you several times. I'll be talking to you about your past, how you're doing here, and about—what you want for the future. What you want for yourselves and your child."

"And you already think I'm crazy," Andrea offered. "So that's—great. That's excellent. Alice?"

"Nobody thinks you're crazy," Melodye said, not allowing Alice to answer Andrea's concern for her. "Nobody. I don't. Alice doesn't. And Milton certainly doesn't. You were one of the reasons he hired me. What happened to you was one of the reasons that he hired me."

"She's right," Alice said quickly. "Andrea—Milton was so bothered by what happened to you? He had the Governor hire Melodye as a second so that there would be more than one evaluation submitted. And then? He had the Governor make a decree that no one within Woodbury could _touch_ a citizen without due cause. Not even guards are allowed to touch a citizen unless that citizen is an active danger to themselves or others. Not a _suspected_ danger. An active danger. Milton just added a huge level of security for every person in here because of what happened to you. And, on top of that? He had it decreed that _nobody_ can touch you without your permission except in the case of a medical emergency when you're not able to speak for yourself. His level of protection, right now, is so high that you could have me charged for examining you because—with everything—I forgot to ask your permission to do so."

Andrea's mouth fell slightly open.

"I wouldn't do that," she said, shaking her head.

Alice laughed to herself.

"I didn't think you would," Alice said. "But you _could_. That's how serious Milton was about stopping what happened from happening again. To you or anyone else. You and Michonne are safer, but everyone—Carol and everyone else—is safer too."

"And hiring me was another part of that safety net," Melodye said. "So to speak. Before it would have been Maggie's evaluation alone that would have decided who was mentally wild and who wasn't. Who was ready to go into society and who was better off never having contact with society. Now we both get a say in the matter."

"And you don't think I'm crazy?" Andrea asked. "For—calling about an emergency that actually wasn't an emergency at all?"

"I think that you're human," Melodye said. "At least—without talking to you for very long—I think it was a very _human_ thing to do. I had a nephew and when he was about...four, I guess? He swallowed a dime. He was fine, but my sister was convinced that the dime was going to break down in his system and cause some kind of poisoning and kill him. She called me, crying hysterically about it, and she worried herself sick until she took him, in the middle of the night, to the emergency room. She wasn't satisfied until the doctor told her that he wasn't the first child to ever swallow a dime. He might not be the last. But it certainly didn't seem like it was going to be fatal. I didn't think she was crazy. I thought she was being a mother. And that's what I think you're doing. You're being a _mother_."

"How do we know what gets us dubbed as Wild?" Michonne asked. "How do we know—if we're failing the test? Because, frankly, the only thing that go us dubbed as wild before was surviving. It was doing what we had to do to _survive_."

Melodye frowned at Michonne and shook her head. Carol felt her own shoulders tense. She wanted to know, as desperately as Michonne, what it was that would get them dubbed as wild or not wild.

Because, as Michonne had said, before it seemed that the simple act of surviving, however they could, had been their downfall.

Carol had never made it to a safe zone. When her husband had been killed, and she'd been left in a world with her infant daughter that was overrun with the Dead, she'd thought herself safer alone than in the company of people she didn't know—especially if those people were men. She'd learned to kill the Dead to save her life and to save her daughter's life.

And, as time had gone on, she'd stopped seeking the shelter of a safe zone. She'd learned she didn't need it. She'd learned that she could survive and that, even if it wasn't always easy, she could keep herself and her daughter alive.

Once she'd begun to see little groups of neighborhoods popping up here and there—some sign that civilization was on the mend—she'd tried to venture near to near to one of the communities. She'd thought about seeking some kind of help there. But they'd shot at her when she neared their fences and she'd fled.

Among the Dead, away from the new-forming towns, Carol could keep Sophia safe. The Dead were simple. They wanted to kill her to eat her. Their motivations were clear. Their actions were predictable. Humans weren't quite as predictable. They were much more dangerous.

So Carol avoided humans, in the so-called wild and in the community clusters. And when she'd started to see the notifications, she'd simply moved farther away from them because the government that was behind the notifications was a government full of people—dangerous and unpredictable people—and Carol didn't know if she could survive with them. She didn't know if she could keep Sophia safe.

But, alone, with only the Dead to commonly contend with, Carol was _surviving_. And her daughter, growing like a weed, was _surviving_.

When they'd been captured, Sophia was a child—her infancy was years behind her—and Carol's fears had only been confirmed. She could protect her daughter against the Dead, but it was people that she couldn't trust. And that distrust of people, it seemed—or at least the distrust of people who expected to be blindly trusted without question or concern—was what had made her _wild_.

Though, if such a thing was truly at the heart of being wild, Carol didn't know how there was anyone who _wasn't_ wild. And she was certain that she wasn't tame because her distrust of people, now, was even worse than it had been back then—she'd been taught to trust them even _less_ when all her darkest fears about mankind had been realized.

So she didn't know how any of them could truly prove their human status.

Unless, of course, they had an insider's perspective on what exactly they needed to do to be considered human. Then they could play their roles perfectly. They could win the game.

Melodye shook her head at Michonne. She hesitated, starting to speak and then stopping it more than once, before she finally gave a definitive response to Michonne.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I can't tell you that. But you'll be fine. I'm sure you will."

Carol swallowed.

Melodye was going to be around the office a lot. Alice had said so herself. And, if Carol read her correctly, she was warm and open. She wanted to help them.

And Carol really _wanted_ the woman's _help_.

Given enough time, Carol was sure that Melodye would tell her exactly what she needed to know—exactly what _they all_ needed to know. She might not ever tell her outright, of course, because she believed that she couldn't or she shouldn't, but Carol thought that she'd eventually tell her all that she needed to know—she just had to convince her that it wasn't what she was doing.


	68. Chapter 68

**AN: Here we are, another chapter here. It's a Caryl chapter. It's fluffy. I have to have those sometimes for survival, lol. You've been warned.**

 **I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"I'm telling you, I see him," Daryl said. He ran his hand up his face and pushed his hair back, slinging more water than just that caused by the shower spray, and smiled at Carol with the half-smile that said that he was amused with something but trying to hold back the full range of emotion that he felt.

"You do _not_ ," Carol insisted again. "You don't!"

She turned around and turned the knobs, cutting the water off to their shower, and then she pulled the curtain back and stepped out of the tub. She passed Daryl his towel before she started to dry off with her own.

"I do," Daryl said. "What do I get for sayin' I do if I don't?"

"I'm sorry, Daryl," Carol said. "But you _can't_. It's not possible. I'm not far enough along to be showing. You can't see any evidence of the baby yet."

Daryl huffed behind her and she bit her lip to keep from smiling at him. He dropped his towel, put a hand on each of her shoulders, and walked her forward until both of them were aligned with the bathroom mirror.

"What do you see?" He asked.

Carol smirked at him.

"A lot that I like," she said.

Daryl made a face at her and snatched her towel out of her hands. She couldn't help but laugh at him.

"Gimme that," he said. "Look. At you, not me. What do you see?"

Carol sighed.

"I see that I look a lot older than I used to," Carol said.

"Everybody does," Daryl said. "Keep going."

"I see that—Daryl it's just fat," Carol said. "I've been eating a lot more lately. We all have. It's part of having those regular meals coming in. Never getting told no because we're stuck in taming for days at the time. That's all it is. I'm filling out."

"If you were filling out, then you'd be getting fat everywhere to match up to it," Daryl said. "I'm tellin' you it's the kid."

"And I'm telling you that it's too _early_ ," Carol said. "Look, Andrea's probably at least four weeks ahead of me. And I think she's showing a little, but that's with about four weeks more growth there. Me? It's just too early. And I'm sorry. I know you want some proof of things. But it's just not there yet. You don't see the baby!"

Daryl looked disappointed enough that Carol wished she hadn't said anything. In hindsight it wouldn't have hurt to just let him think that the extra pounds she'd apparently picked up were directly related to the baby. It wouldn't have hurt anything to let him just be happy believing something that didn't matter at all to anyone except him—especially when it wasn't hurting anything.

"Whatever," Daryl said. In show of his feelings on the matter, he tossed Carol's towel over shoulder and squeezed past her to leave the bathroom.

To give him a moment, Carol finished toweling off. She hung up her towel and his so they wouldn't sour, knowing that it would be a day or so before they were brought fresh ones from the laundry. Then she stood in front of the mirror and ran her fingers through her hair, combing out her shaggy curls. She turned sideways and ran her hands down her body.

She had shown earlier than some with Sophia, but she wasn't even as far along now as she had been when she'd started showing with Sophia. She felt like she was barely pregnant enough to consider herself truly pregnant. In the old world, she might not have even started telling anyone, yet, that she was expecting.

The extra weight gain had to be just that—extra weight gain. And it puddled around her tummy because that was one of her body's favorite places to store anything that it wasn't sure what it should do with.

But Daryl wanted to believe that it was the baby. He wanted something concrete. He wanted something he could see and he could touch—something he could say was proof of the baby. He wanted to talk about it and ask questions about it from the time he got up in the morning until they went to bed at night. That was the only way that he felt like he was getting to be a part of it.

And Carol wasn't used to that, because she'd never had it before, but she'd always thought that she would've liked Ed to be more involved. Now Daryl wanted to be _entirely_ involved and she was just hurting his feelings and, essentially, stomping on what he saw as his new toys.

 _And Carol realized that life was too short, and too hard already, to crush his happiness over something that wasn't hurting anyone—over something that he deserved to be happy about._

Carol left the bathroom and found Daryl in the bedroom. He was sitting on the bed, his back to her, looking out the small window there—the closest they got to being outside unless they were working or heading to a meal.

She crawled onto the bed and he didn't look at her. She crawled across it, finally reaching him, and she rested herself against his back and rested her cheek on his shoulder. She wrapped her arms around him and he didn't push her off, even if he didn't exactly respond to her.

"You could be right, you know," Carol said. "It could be the baby."

"You just said it weren't," Daryl said.

"But—I wasn't thinking about it," Carol said. "And—it's my second baby. I'd—I'd probably show earlier than I did with Sophia. I was thinking about when I was showing with her. It would be different this time."

"You don't gotta lie to me, alright?" Daryl said. "I don't need you coddling my ass. You say don't look pregnant, then you don't look pregnant. You can just be fat. There ain't no damn law against it."

Carol rocked back on her feet and let go of her hold on Daryl. She crawled around him and sat down on the bed next to him, allowing her legs to hang over the side as she sat normally. For a brief moment she was glad that they weren't really allowed to be out and about. Anyone who might have come by their window at that moment—even though they had sheer curtains—would have gotten more of a show than they probably bargained for.

"I'm not coddling you," Carol said. "It's true, Daryl. I don't know for sure. I could be showing. A little. It could be the baby. I know—my breasts are swollen."

Daryl chuckled quietly to himself, the movement of his body giving it away more than any real sound he produced.

"I know that too," he said. "And I know you get sick—but half the time you just stay in the bathroom worrying over the toilet instead of actually doing something productive about it and throwing up whatever's bad in there."

Carol laughed to herself.

"It doesn't work that way," Carol said. "It's not like I can just throw something up and then it's gone. It's the baby that makes me sick. It's—my body adjusting to it. And I don't usually really throw up. I just feel like I'm going to. It's really not that bad, though. My morning sickness was horrible with Sophia. This time? I just feel _gross_ , but I don't feel like I'm going to die."

"Shit ain't morning sickness," Daryl said. "It's after supper sickness. It's damn—three in the morning and you should be sleeping sickness."

"Maybe the baby can't tell time," Carol said.

At least she got a laugh out of Daryl with that one. He seemed to be relaxing a little, at least, from his earlier upset.

"I don't know why the hell not," Daryl said. "I keep trying to tell him what time it is every time he starts that crap up. Tell him every night—it's three a.m. and it ain't time for puking. It's time for sleeping."

Carol laughed to herself. He wasn't lying. He really did say that to her—and in particular to her stomach—at least once every night that he came to check on her while she was in the bathroom floor keeping watch over the toilet.

"I don't know if he can hear yet," Carol said. "I don't know when they can hear things that are happening outside. So maybe that's the problem. He just can't hear you."

"Better'n just ignoring me, I guess," Daryl offered.

"It won't be that long and Alice will do a sonogram for us," Carol said. "We'll get to see him on a screen. Listen to his heartbeat. Just like she did for Andrea."

"Yeah?" Daryl asked, his interest piqued at least a little. Carol nodded at him.

"I'll warn you, though, it's hard to see much. I mean—she shows you where he's at and what everything is, but it's hard to see much of anything. I don't think I really saw anything in Sophia's that I could identify on my own until I was at least six month's pregnant," Carol explained.

"But we'll see something," Daryl said. "Hear a heartbeat's good, right? Make sure it's—working like it's supposed to. Fix it if it ain't."

Carol swallowed and nodded at him. She knew what he meant, but she didn't know if he understood that—if anything wasn't quite right—there might not be a whole lot of fixing it.

"Yeah," she said. "Hearing the heartbeat's my favorite part. Right up until he starts kicking. That was really my favorite part. I loved to just—feel Sophia moving around. It was a constant reminder that she was there. She was OK."

"When's that start?" Daryl asked.

"That's going to be a while," Carol said. "At least—it's going to be a while before I can feel it and then it's going to be a little longer after that before you can feel it. Baby has to get stronger before it can kick hard enough for you to feel it."

"I'm the last to know everything about this, ain't I?" Daryl asked.

"It works that way," Carol said. "I have the unfair advantage, you know? Since—it's _inside_ of me and everything." Daryl laughed quietly to himself again and rocked to the side so that he bumped Carol. She laughed at him when he growled at her that she was an "asshole" for her response. "You're not the last to figure everything out," she offered. "You're officially the first to realize I was showing early. That's all you."

"I spend just about every evening paying attention to every piece of your body," Daryl pointed out. "I bet you that—I could pick your body out of a lineup of fifty women. If your heads were covered up and shit? I'd pick you out of any of 'em."

"I'd hope you weren't staring at a lineup of fifty naked women," Carol offered. "And that I wasn't in it with my head covered up."

"You know what I mean," Daryl said.

Carol sucked in a breath.

"I do," she said. "I know what you mean. And—I think I could do the same. But it's because—I've never paid attention to things like I do now. Before? Everything was so fast. It was so busy that I missed everything. I missed a lot. Now? There's a lot more time to pay attention to things. Things I used to just—take for granted? They seem a lot more important now."

Daryl reached a hand over and rested it on Carol's thigh. He squeezed the muscle and she fought back the urge to move when it made her muscle want to jump in response.

"You're important," Daryl said.

Carol rested her hand over his.

"And you're important to me," Carol said. "And _this_ is important. Sitting here on the bed with you. Our lives now. Our life. It's important."

Daryl looked at her and moved his hand up to scratch his fingers at her stomach a little nervously. Then he settled down and rested his hand flat there before he patted her. It was how he always approached touching her. It was like he wanted to touch her, but he was always afraid that he shouldn't—even though she'd never stopped him from it before. He had to settle into it every time.

"He's important," Daryl said.

Carol smiled at him and nodded.

"He's important," she agreed. "He's very—very important."

"And I can see him," Daryl said, cocking an eyebrow at her in challenge.

Carol accepted it.

"He's important," she repeated. "And he's very _big_ , too."


	69. Chapter 69

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"How long?" Sadie asked.

Alice walked with her arm around the upper part of Sadie's arm. It had little to do with controlling the woman and much to do with being able to easily signal to her if she needed to communicate with her. Merle walked just a little off to Alice's other side. She wasn't missing the fact that there were guards, outside the fences, that were watching them. She also wasn't going to pretend that she didn't know that the guards—and probably anyone else who saw her or knew what she was doing—thought she could possibly be insane for escorting two of the "Wilds" outside the fences of their secure zone without the assistance of a guard.

Alice stopped their forward progress again and Sadie turned toward her. At the moment, it was the only way that she could communicate with Sadie. They had to stop what they were doing and Alice had to speak to her directly. One day she imagined she might learn sign language, or they might work out something else, but for the moment they were working with what they had.

Alice, admittedly, felt a little inadequate.

"How long?" Alice asked. She didn't want to tell Sadie that whatever else went with the question had been asked inside her head. Sadie just nodded at her, though, like the question stood alone perfectly well. Alice sucked in a breath and tried to figure out what it might be in reference to. She scanned her short term memory for anything that they'd been talking about since she'd retrieved the two from their house. "To know if you're pregnant? It's going to depend on you more than anything. If—even if you were ovulating? It would take time to show up, even on a blood test."

"Not what she's asking about, Doc," Merle pointed out.

Alice glanced at him.

"Care to clarify?" Alice asked him.

"I think she knows how the hell to make babies," Merle said. "She made five of the damn things before she even got here. Wants to know how damn long before we get out the _pen_."

Alice chewed her lip.

"Five minutes and we'll be at the clinic," she offered. "That's the best I can offer."

"No," Merle said. "How fucking long before we get the hell outta here for _good_. How fuckin' long before they take the damn dog collars off our fuckin' necks like we're damn Rottweilers? 'Fore they give us enough damn food to live off? And fuckin' spoons and shit to eat the food with?"

Alice swallowed.

"They're still not giving you enough food?" She asked.

"Enough to not die," Merle said. "But if she's gonna throw a pup, I'ma have to give her my food to do it. And we eat everything we get with our hands. Lap it out the damn plates like the dogs they're treatin' us like we is."

Alice's blood ran a little cold in her veins. She knew that there was something of a "different way of life" going on inside what Merle called "the pen" because the guards that had come from the maximum security prisons were still mostly handling that area. She didn't realize, though, that it was as extreme as it was—even if she had some suspicions. And it was clear that Merle was starting to lose his cool about it. His anger was palpable.

"I don't know exactly how long it's going to take," Alice said. "I really don't. But—what I can tell you is that you two? You're the closest to getting out. If you continue like you are? You'll get out soon. We'll move you into one of the other houses outside of the security zone. You can choose to stay together or—we can split you up. At least, I'm sure they'll let you be split up if Sadie's pregnant."

"What?" Sadie asked, trying to get Alice's attention. Apparently she hadn't caught everything that Alice had said to Merle because the angle hadn't been quite right.

"What makes you think we wanna be split?" Merle asked.

Alice half-shrugged her shoulders.

"You aren't happy," she said. "And I just thought that might be part of it."

"You think we're splitting the fuck up?" Merle asked, his temper clearly rising a bit more. Alice instinctively shushed him so that they wouldn't draw any unwanted attention from the guards. He looked around quickly and apparently figured out why she had requested he lower his voice. "Don't want to split up," he growled. "Especially not if she's knocked up. I ain't bein' studded out. We wanna eat like fucking human beings. Enough we ain't starvin' for every damn meal when it comes and we wanna eat with some damn forks and spoons and shit. I ain't got a damn problem with eating with my hands sometimes—but hell, if I'm eating oatmeal? I wanna do it with a damn spoon, not lickin' it out a bowl that I can't even hold proper. Gotta have damn Sadie help feed me—help hold the damn bowl good—if I'm eatin' every bit of it. That ain't no damn good for me."

Alice closed her eyes for a moment just to block out everything around her. She had reached a point where she didn't feel like she could say "this isn't my job". She couldn't even say that she knew what her job was anymore. Originally her job had been just to watch out for the medical care of the people there—take care of their ailments, help them heal from any injuries, and make sure that any babies that were born were born safely. Beyond that? Her responsibilities were to Milton and the medical tests that he needed run for the project.

Now, it seemed, she'd somehow fallen into a number of jobs that she'd never been actually assigned.

"I will bring it up," Alice said. "I will—bring it up and I'll find out when you can get moved. You're both cooperating and you've both got a clean record. Some of the others are not quite as cooperative. So—you just keep doing what you're doing? Stay on your absolute best behavior? And I'll—I'll bring it up. I'll get you moved."

Merle reached around Alice and bumped Sadie's shoulder with his hand. She was looking at both of them with an expression that fell somewhere between confusion and disgust. She relaxed her expression a little, though, when she focused on Merle.

"Gonna get us moved," Merle said. "Soon. Just don't fuck with nobody. Get us moved. Get us eating normal. More food. Spoons and forks and shit."

"And?" Sadie asked. To illustrate her point, she ran her finger under the metal band that wrapped around her throat.

Merle turned his attention to Alice.

"The damn collars," Merle said. "Want 'em off."

Alice nodded her head.

"I'll see what I can do about them too," Alice said. "They think they need them to control you. But—maybe if I can convince them that you don't need to be controlled, they'll take them off."

Merle bumped Sadie's shoulder again.

"Gonna get 'em off," he said.

Sadie looked relieved. The relief quickly gave way to a smile and she nodded at him. She nodded at Alice too, the smile widening a little.

"OK!" She said with more enthusiasm behind the word than was really necessary.

Alice wished she had half the confidence in herself, and her abilities to actually do anything in a place where she was simply an employee, that Merle and Sadie seemed to have in her.

"Come on," Alice said with a sigh. "We've got to get to the clinic. We're out here too long and they're going to start getting suspicious."

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Daryl's stomach was in knots and he apparently wasn't doing a great job at hiding it. Carol must have sensed it because she moved closer to him, wrapped her arms around his like she was hugging his arm, and walked with him to the clinic. His first reaction was almost to shake her off as they passed a guard, but then his brain reminded him that they were allowed this. They were allowed to touch. They were allowed to comfort one another.

They were together, they were making a kid, and they were _allowed_ to touch each other.

And they had a pass, so they were also allowed to walk calmly from his job to the clinic.

Instead of shrugging her off, Daryl pulled his arm free and changed his position so that he could wrap his arm around her and pull her closer to him.

"Do you know what you want to say to him?" Carol asked.

"I don't even know if it's gonna _be_ him," Daryl said.

"It's him, Daryl," Carol said. "He knew you. He was—a lot like you described him to be."

"Just a lot?" Daryl asked.

"I think we've all changed," Carol said with a sigh. "I think we've all changed a lot. I know that I have. Maybe Merle has too. And—I told you that he's missing his hand. Alice thought he might lose more of the arm, but she took care of the infection and it seems to be healing. All of that? Everything he experience in prison? It had to change him at least a little."

Daryl's stomach churned again.

Part of his nervous feeling was coming from simply seeing his brother again. After all, he'd thought his brother was dead. He'd lived with the guilt of possibly causing his death since he'd been captured. Seeing someone come back from the dead was rattling, no matter the form they took. He didn't know, either, how Merle was going to feel about him—maybe he'd blame him for the capture. After all, Daryl hadn't turned him in, but he hadn't stopped them either. He hadn't gotten back to Merle to tell him that they were coming.

Another part of it was the fact that he _knew_ that Merle would likely be changed. Carol was right. They were all different than they'd been once upon a time. They had all changed when they'd been forced out of their homes and lives they'd known before the turn, but they'd all changed again when they were taken into custody and turned into animals.

And, if Daryl was honest, they'd all changed again when they'd come to Woodbury and started to entertain the idea that there might be another life, entirely, in their future.

Daryl was a little afraid to see Merle changed. His brother wasn't always the easiest person to be around, but at least he'd always been a constant asshole. Seeing him changed was going to mean fully coming to terms with the fact—which Daryl knew but had never directly experienced—that people you knew could always become someone at least a little different. People could change, for better or for worse.

He just hoped that the change in his brother, whatever it might be, wouldn't be for worse.

"Gonna tell him I'm sorry," Daryl said.

"Sorry for what?" Carol asked.

"Not stopping them," Daryl said, shrugging gently. "Not gettin' back to tell him he oughta run. They was coming for him."

"It wasn't your fault," Carol said. "When they got us? None of us could save anyone. We couldn't even save ourselves."

"You don't know Merle," Daryl said. "He's gotta have someone to blame. He's always gotta have someone to blame."

"If he looks around," Carol said, "he'll find plenty of people to blame. But, Daryl? It isn't you that he needs to blame. It probably isn't you that he blames at all. He was anxious to see you too." She hummed. "What else are you going to tell him? That you missed him?"

Daryl laughed to himself.

"Merle ain't one for sappy shit," Daryl said. "You don't know him, but he ain't one for that kinda shit."

"I don't know him," Carol agreed. "At least, not really, but maybe he'd still want to hear it. Maybe—not every day or all the time, but it wouldn't hurt to mention it once. Not after everything. I mean, you thought he was dead. He thought you were dead. Surely it's fine to admit that, after all these years, you missed each other and you're happy to see each other alive."

Daryl hummed.

"Maybe," he ceded.

"You don't have to know everything you're going to say right now," Carol said. "I'm sure—I'm sure it'll come to you. And—really? I'm not sure that what you say is going to matter."

Daryl hummed again.

"Think—you think I could tell him about the baby?" Daryl asked.

Carol rubbed her hand on his back.

"If you want to," she said. "If you think that—he'd like to know that. And you'd like to tell him? You could tell him. What are you going to tell him about the baby?"

Daryl shrugged again.

"Don't know," he admitted. "Just—that we're gonna have one? That he's—there? He exists? Figure—Merle oughta know that. He is my brother."

Carol laughed quietly and pushed herself in tighter to Daryl.

"If you want to tell him? Tell him," Carol said. "You're right. He's your brother. And—it's something he should know. It's something you should share with him."


	70. Chapter 70

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Normally Daryl's very first thought when walking into such a small room, and having the door closed behind him with four other people present, would have been that it was too crowded to even breathe. Instead, his first thought was that he simply couldn't be seeing what he was seeing.

Standing almost directly in front of him was his brother.

Merle was older because of the years that had passed since Daryl had last seen him, but he was older, too, because of what those years had brought with them. Though he'd never been obese, he was much thinner now than Daryl could ever recall him having been before. The weight loss, not done intentionally or healthfully, had left his skin looking loose on his bones and had left his face sagging. Around his neck was one of the metal collars that they'd been wearing the day that they'd been led into Woodbury in chains—apparently they were a permanent article for all of them.

Merle looked tired. He looked old and he looked tired.

And Daryl might not have believe it was him if it weren't for his eyes. No matter how much they'd taken from him, there was still a spark of something that was Merle in his eyes.

Merle chuckled. It was almost a popping noise. The quick indication that he found something amusing. The corner of his mouth curled up in amusement.

"Well," he said, drawing the word out, "if it ain't the damn prodigal son. Sent you out to check a couple of traps and never seen you again. Figured the boogeyman got'cha. How ya been, lil' brother?"

Daryl felt his pulse pick up. His heart might have skipped a beat entirely. That was a voice that he knew almost as well as he knew his own. He willed himself to stay stiffly in place instead of running, as he used to do as a child when Merle would return home after some absence usually caused by his inability to "act right," to wrap himself around his brother. Merle never liked that. He always told Daryl that it was too damn clingy.

"Merle," Daryl said, finding that it was difficult for him to come up with anything else to say or any other way to respond. For all the speeches he'd practiced in his head, and all the apologies he'd been ready to offer, nothing seemed like it wanted to actually up and come out of his mouth.

And then, if he thought he couldn't be any more surprised, he was wrong. Merle stepped forward, offered an arm out, and wrapped it around Daryl. Daryl didn't know how to respond and Merle laughed in his ear.

"Damn, Daryl," he said. "Don't you know how to hug anymore?"

It broke whatever had frozen Daryl to his spot and he wrapped his arms around his brother, drawing him into him. Close to him like that, Daryl could feel how thin he was. He could feel how much he'd changed—though it had been far more years than Daryl could count since he'd had his arms wrapped around his older brother's body.

Merle broke the hug and backed up a couple of steps. He looked Daryl up and down and didn't try to hide it. Daryl wondered what Merle saw. He wondered how changed he was in his brother's eyes. The transformation on his part might be nearly as great as Merle's. After all, Daryl wasn't that much in the practice of seeing himself and he figured, even if he did catch glimpses of himself in the mirror every day, he might not notice the changes in himself the same way that Merle might after the long time they'd spent apart.

"How you doin', brother?" Daryl asked.

Merle laughed low in his throat.

"Best damn vacation I ever been on," Merle said. He lifted his arm to show Daryl that he'd lost a hand—something that Daryl already knew—and Daryl let his eyes focus for just a moment on the covering that hid the stump from his eyes. "Lost my damn hand. Real nice fuckin' game that was to play with Officer Friendly in the prison." He ran his finger under the metal collar that hung around his neck. "Got some nice jewelry that the Doc here says I might get to part company with soon." Merle gestured his head in Alice's direction before he let his eyes trail over to Carol and then back to Daryl. "But you...you look like you doin' alright. You...you doin' alright?"

Daryl followed Merle's glance toward Carol and she offered him a soft smile of what was, more than likely, encouragement. Daryl swallowed and nodded his head at Merle.

"Better'n I ever been," he said. "I gotta admit. But Merle—I didn't turn you in out there." He shook his head at Merle. "I didn't tell 'em nothing. Not where you were."

Merle worked his jaw like he was physically chewing on something. He shook his head.

"Never thought you did," he said. "Wouldn't matter anyway. They'd've found me. Did find me. I did ask 'em about you. Told me yeah they'd seen you. Told me that—that'cha put up a fight. They come up on ya and you put up a fight. That they—took care of ya. Put me in a van. In the back of it. One officer in there with me. Asshole—when we was in the van and me all tied up like a damn buck ready to load up? Asshole told me that he killed you. Broke your neck." Merle laughed to himself and shook his head again. "They never expected, when they opened them damn doors, to find out I could untie just about any damn knot they could tie up—and that he weren't the only fucker could break a neck."

Daryl's stomach dropped. If it were possible, he was pretty sure it would've hit the floor. He swallowed against the lump that was forming in his throat—a lump that he didn't expect and was a little embarrassed to find was plaguing him.

"That's why they took you to that place, Merle," Daryl said. "That's why they—put you in them chains."

Merle shrugged his shoulders.

"If it weren't that, it'd been something," Merle said, dismissing it. "Prob'ly didn't help I had the asshole's gun and I got me one more of 'em coming out the van."

"I made the circuit," Daryl said. "I been in—a buncha places. Last place I ended up was a place they called Region Thirty Three. Come outta there to come here. A citizen of Woodbury. I didn't know nothing about what happened to you until—they told me in taming. Said you was dead. Went out like—like you was defending the damn Alamo."

Merle genuinely laughed at that to the point that Daryl couldn't help but laugh at it, even though his body didn't seem to agree with such joviality. He heard, around him, evidence that Alice and Carol were laughing too.

"If you gotta go," Merle said, "then I reckon that's how the hell to do it." He looked back at Carol and then nodded his head in her direction before he looked back at Daryl. "This little woman the one they give you? Right mousy."

Daryl shook his head.

"You don't know her," Daryl growled before he even realized the way that the words came out. He felt his pulse pick up in a different way this time. Merle liked to give him hell. He always had. Usually it didn't really get under Daryl's skin too badly, but he could feel that he wasn't going to appreciate it if it was going to come at Carol's expense—especially with her present—and he hoped Merle would be able to detect that. "She ain't mousy. And they ain't give her to me."

Merle's lip curled up again in amusement. He laughed to himself.

"Hell, little brother," Merle said. "Pull in your damn claws. Just fuckin' with you. You always was too damn soft."

"Not soft," Daryl said. "But she ain't no damn mouse."

Merle held both his hand and his stump up in mock surrender, genuine amusement across his features. Carol, for her part, remained as quiet as the other two women in the room.

"Easy, brother," Merle said. "Glad you like what the hell they give you. Hell—you weren't gonna get one no other way. This shit was a damn blessing in disguise for you."

"Didn't give her to me," Daryl repeated.

"We chose to be with each other," Carol offered. It was the first thing she'd said since they'd come in. "We met—we met in prison. At Region Thirty Three. When they told us we were coming here, we chose to be together."

Daryl nodded his head. His pulse slowed a little. He watched as Merle looked Carol over, head to toe, and then his brother smirked at him.

"Yeah," he said. "You got you one." He looked at Carol, then, and addressed her. "My lil' brother's the sensitive type. Real sweet, he is."

"I think I know a little bit about him," Carol offered, seemingly unbothered by Merle in the slightest.

"We like it together," Daryl told Merle. "It's good that way. Gonna have us a kid in seven or so months."

Merle looked at Carol again and smiled, but he erased the expression quickly.

"Knocked up?" He asked.

Daryl saw when Carol rolled her eyes in his direction. She looked back at Merle.

"If that's how you want to phrase it," Carol said. "Other ways might be—I'm pregnant. I'm going to have a baby. I'm expecting our child—your _brother's_ child."

Merle laughed to himself.

"Maybe you ain't so damn mousy after all," Merle said. "Maybe I read you wrong, Mouse. Look like you might wanna break my neck same as I did that nice officer in the van."

"Don't give me a reason to," Carol said, offering him a smile of her own. "We're all proving just how human we are here. How tame and submissive. Like quiet little _mice_ , Merle. We don't want to mess that up."

"Carol's right," Alice said quickly. "And I don't like confrontation."

Merle looked at her and smiled.

"Ain't nobody confrontating, Doc," Merle said. "We're just gettin' to know each other. That's how Dixons do it." He turned his head and offered a quick wink in Daryl's direction. Daryl didn't realize how tense he was feeling in the space until he relaxed upon seeing that—a sign that Merle was truly doing nothing more than fucking around. A sign that all was well. Daryl tried to communicate that to Carol with a look of his own, and he was pretty sure, when he saw a quick snatch of a smile cross her lips and fade away, that she understood exactly what he was trying to say.

"He's right," Daryl said to Alice, not wanting the woman to get too concerned about what might happen in the small space. After all, if she called for security, they were all possibly dead over a misunderstanding. "Nothing but bullshit going on. That's Merle for you."

"You right skittish, Doc," Merle said. "Maybe you the little mouse in the room."

"Call me whatever you want," Alice said. "But this is a small room and I'm not exactly supposed to have you all in here without at least one guard present. Not yet. So—I'd appreciate everybody keeping their promise to be on their best behavior."

Merle seemed to soften a little when he looked at Alice. Maybe it was because, like the lion with the splinter in his paw, she'd helped him with his stump. Maybe it was because she was going to get rid of the metal band around his neck. Or, maybe, it was just because she was treating him like a human being and that wasn't something he wasn't entirely used to. It wasn't something he'd ever been _entirely_ used to.

"Simmer down, Doc," Merle said. "Ain't nobody here even pissed off. Hell—I'm fucking ecstatic! Found my little brother and found out I'ma be an uncle—all in one damn day. It's a good day, Doc."

"If anybody's a mouse, Merle, it's your little woman stuck over there in the corner," Daryl said, gesturing toward the woman that was sitting on a stool. Like Merle, she wore one of the heavy metal bands at her throat and there was still evidence of healing wounds on her face. She, more than likely, wasn't a mouse at all. At least, the authorities hadn't seen her as a mouse. She perked up a little when Daryl gestured in her direction. Merle looked over his shoulder and Daryl thought he saw a hint of some kind of softening on Merle's features then.

"Sadie ain't no mouse," Merle said. "But she don't talk all that much. Can't hear a damn thing so the talkin'—it don't mean that much to her. When she's got somethin' to say, though, you gonna hear it. Gotta look at her when you talk to her or else she don't know nothing you say."

Merle gestured at Sadie and she abandoned her stool. Standing flat on her feet she wasn't much taller than she'd been when she'd been perched up on the piece of furniture. Daryl wondered what the woman must have done to make any of the officers fear someone of her stature enough to put her in irons. She walked over to stand beside Merle, clearly assuming that now she was being invited into the conversation though she was mostly obvious to all that had happened already. She smiled at Daryl and offered him a hand to shake.

"Hi," she said. Her voice, if Daryl didn't know she couldn't hear, would have told him that something was different about her speech.

"Hi," he said, laughing at the ease and, to some degree, innocence of the greeting. "Daryl," he said. Sadie nodded, her smile not fading.

"Sadie," she said, pointing to herself like Daryl might confuse her name for belonging to someone else in the room.

"Carol," he offered, gesturing toward Carol.

"Oh, I know," Sadie said. "We met."

Daryl looked at Merle. His brother, much more of an idiot than Merle would ever admit to being, was smiling like a genuine idiot at the woman. Daryl had seen his brother with a lot of women in his life, but he had to admit that the expression he was wearing at the moment was something he hadn't exactly seen before.

"Anything else you wanna tell me?" Daryl asked.

Merle looked at Daryl and his expression changed. Aware that Daryl was looking at him, he wiped away the expression that he'd been wearing.

"What?" Merle asked.

"You knock her up?" Daryl asked.

Merle furrowed his brows slightly at Daryl.

Maybe he wouldn't like it so much if the shoe was on the other foot. Maybe, too, there was something there that was a little bit more than just being together for the convenience of the project—no matter how it started.

"She ain't pregnant," Merle said. "Not yet."

Daryl glanced at Alice and then back at Merle.

"Talk to Alice," Daryl said. "She can make just about anything happen that you want to happen." He looked back at Alice who was giving him a look that he wasn't entirely able to identify yet. "Ain't that right, Alice?"

She made a noise that was almost a growl.

"Apparently so," she said. She sighed. "But—right now she's got to make you all magically reappear back in your spaces—so say what you need to say."

"When we get to see each other again, Doc?" Merle asked.

"I don't know," Alice said.

"But you gonna fix it so—so it's normal, right?" Merle asked. "Damn if we're supposed to be living in some kinda town and they don't even let us out of our houses to talk to our friends. Talk to our damn _family_. He's my brother."

Alice sighed.

"I'm working on it," Alice said. "But for now? It's a practice in everybody learning to be happy with what they get. I might be a lesbian, but I'm not a magic fairy."


	71. Chapter 71

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"I thought it went well!" Carol said. She was walking Daryl back to work, though they didn't have too far to go. He had to check in with Grady and then Grady would decide which of the projects was the one that Daryl should work on for the rest of their "on the clock" day.

"He didn't have to be an asshole," Daryl muttered.

Carol laughed to herself.

"You told me he's always an asshole," Carol said. "So I don't know why you expected any different."

"He was meetin' you for the first time," Daryl said. "I told him about the kid. He didn't have to be an asshole about it."

"Are you mad because he said they gave me to you?" Carol asked. "Or are you mad because he asked if I was knocked up? Because—you've got to tell me what exactly he did that made you so angry if you want me to respond to it either way."

Daryl huffed.

"I ain't really pissed," he said. "Hell—I should know better'n to expect anything but shit from Merle. I guess I just wish things was different. And I woulda liked him to have acted different. That's all. Would've like you to see somethin' different than just—my asshole brother."

They neared the construction site where Carol would bid Daryl farewell for a few hours while they both returned to work. She didn't miss that, seeing how close they were getting, Daryl slowed his steps. Finally, he slowed them to the point that they were standing still in the middle of the walkway.

Carol licked her lips and tried to hide her smile.

"I don't care that your brother is an asshole," Carol said. "In fact? He seems like the most harmless asshole I've ever known in my life and—I've known my share of assholes."

Daryl chuckled at her.

"He broke a man's neck," Daryl said. "And then he shot another."

"Because he thought they killed you," Carol said. "And—maybe that's something I can sympathize with. Maybe I'd do the same. Or at least—try to."

Daryl glanced around and then brought his eyes back to settle on Carol. He shook his head gently.

"Maybe that's something you don't let nobody hear," he said.

Carol nodded her understanding.

"He's good to Sadie," Carol said. "If he wasn't, she wouldn't want to stay with him. And they didn't know each other before. They didn't even see each other until we took Merle to the house. That's got to get him some credit, right?"

Daryl sucked his teeth.

"You gonna defend him?" Daryl asked.

"I just want you to understand that I don't think badly of him," Carol said. "And I certainly don't think less of you for anything he might say or do. Words won't hurt me. I've been hurt by plenty worse things in my life."

"I don't want even the words trying to hurt you," Daryl said.

Carol smiled at him. She felt her cheeks grow warm and she realized, right out there in the middle of the sidewalk, she was blushing at him like a schoolgirl over the fact that Daryl was one of the only people—and in the most unlikely of places—who had ever truly wanted her protected from anything that could do her any kind of harm. And he wasn't just saying it. It was really what he wanted for her. He wanted her to be safe and happy.

And that was a feeling unlike most any other feeling she'd ever had before.

Carol leaned in and offered him a kiss that she hoped would carry him through the rest of his work day with at least a little of the warm feeling that she had at the moment. He returned the kiss, maybe even a little too enthusiastically for the fact that they were in public, and when she pulled away from him he was smiling.

"What'd I do to deserve that?" He asked.

"Go to work," Carol said. "You don't want to get in trouble and neither do I. We'll order dinner in tonight."

She walked off, before he could say anything, and she almost felt like skipping down the sidewalk. She restrained herself, though, and only allowed herself one quick glance over her shoulder to watch him as he headed onward toward where Grady was overseeing one of the construction jobs.

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Michonne sat on the couch and held Andrea's hand in hers. They couldn't tell them that they couldn't touch. The rules from Region Thirty Three didn't apply here and they weren't doing anything that they weren't allowed to do. They were just holding hands and it couldn't be misconstrued as anything that might cause harm to anyone.

Across from them, in what they both considered to be Milton's chair, Hurricane Maggie sat. Behind her, leaning against the wall like something of a bouncer, an officer that had been appointed to her stood and waited to see if they'd do anything that required intervention. He looked mostly bored by his required presence there. His boredom, honestly, was a welcomed contrast to the overenthusiasm for their jobs that Maggie's chosen officers had shown.

They were having their first "meeting" with Maggie. It was supposed to be informal and informative. It was just for her to gather information as a "starting point" for her therapy sessions with them. She needed to know a little about them. She needed to know about their experiences. From there, she would be able to prepare a little better the ways in which she might later steer their conversations for evaluation.

At least, that's how she explained it to Michonne and Andrea. Michonne didn't know what Andrea was thinking, but Michonne was pretty much inclined to not trust anything the woman said, not even when she was telling them that this was solely for her to get to know them and clarify some of the things that were stated in their records.

Michonne could barely breathe at this point, solely in anticipation of what might come and her residual stress from their last meeting with Maggie, and she kept feeling a tremor run through Andrea's body.

"Andrea? I asked you a question," Maggie said. "This isn't going to work if you don't cooperate."

Andrea looked at the woman and Michonne squeezed her hand to remind her that she was there.

"I'm sorry," Andrea said. "I didn't hear you."

"I'm not sure you're paying attention," Maggie said. "And I told you that whatever happened before? You're going to have to get past that. You looked like you had a weapon and the officers reacted like they've been trained to act."

Andrea nodded her head.

"I understand," she said. "I had a—bottle. And they—made sure that I didn't do anything with it."

"If you don't cooperate," Maggie said, "then I can't go ahead with our meetings. And I'll have no choice but to tell them that I can't evaluate you because you can't even cooperate with something as simple as—as simple as answering a few questions."

"I didn't hear the question," Andrea repeated.

"I didn't hear it either," Michonne said. "I heard you say that I wasn't originally supposed to be here and that you'd prefer if you met with us individually. I heard you say that—from what you knew, Wild A wasn't supposed to have any contact with others. I heard you say that—if Andrea didn't cooperate then you'd have to turn her in as non-cooperative, but I didn't hear the question."

"I asked how you thought your part in the project was going," Maggie said.

Andrea stared at her for a moment and then she did her best to replace the slightly terrified expression she'd been wearing since Maggie arrived with a more pleasant one.

"It's great," Andrea said. "Everything is going—great. I'm pregnant, and the baby is fine. That's really about as much as I know about the project at this point."

"We don't really know what we're supposed to do," Michonne said, "except grow the population of Woodbury and do what's asked of us. We don't know how things are going."

Maggie's expression changed slightly and she wrote something down. She looked surprised and Michonne, for her part, wasn't surprised in the slightest. She felt, as had Andrea more than likely, that the question was a test question to see how much they knew—and how much they might be playing into things.

"Tell me about your time here," Maggie said. "What's your life like in Woodbury?"

Andrea relaxed a little and sat back against the back of the couch. She looked around.

"I get up in the morning," Andrea said. "So far—I've been sick every morning for...most of the time I've been pregnant. So that pretty much fills up the first part of my day. I eat something when I can. Milton has already gone to work. I—read a book or I watch—I watch the news channel. I eat again when they bring me food. It's really—pretty much the same every day. I don't do much that I can think of that you would find interesting."

Maggie jotted something else down on her pad and flipped back through a couple of pages where Michonne could see scribble, though she couldn't make it out from the distance that was between them. More than likely she was working from a list of questions and facts.

"Michonne?" Maggie asked, clearly redirecting the question to Michonne to answer.

"My day is pretty much the same," Michonne said. "I do have a job, though. I've had a couple, actually. I go where they need me. Right now I'm working with stocking in the warehouse. I work when they need me. I never know when that's going to be. But—I like it. I like all the people I've worked with."

"Tell me about your time in the wild," Maggie said. "How long were you out there?"

Andrea shook her head.

"I don't know," she said. "When the turn happened, I was travelling. With my sister. We didn't pay it any attention when it started on the news. It wasn't happening around us. We didn't see any of the Dead until we were on the road and—I was out there from that time forward."

Maggie glanced at Michonne.

"Since the turn," Michonne said. Andrea was editing her story a little. Michonne would do the same. "I was at work when the chaos started. Right inside Atlanta. It was madness from the first moment I saw some of the Dead. As soon as I saw the first one? They were everywhere."

"Why didn't you go to any safe zones?" Maggie asked Andrea.

"I didn't even know there were safe zones," Andrea said. "I was on the highway. There wasn't any indication of safe zones. There wasn't anything but us, the Dead, and some other people who were trying to survive. The radio signal was one of the first things to go out. We were cut off."

Michonne shook her head when Maggie looked at her.

"I didn't know about safe zones either," Michonne said. "I left my office to try to go home. When I got home and saw that my neighborhood was overrun? And I knew that Atlanta was overrun? I just—headed out of the city. I was looking for somewhere safe. I thought it would be away from the Dead."

"You weren't travelling together?" Maggie asked. "Because your files say you were together."

"We met on the road," Andrea said.

"You met in the wild," Maggie corrected. Andrea accepted the correction. "Tell me about how that happened."

"Nothing to tell," Michonne offered quickly. "Andrea was alone. I was alone. We met up and we decided there might be safety in numbers."

"You failed to comply with relocation notices that asked you to report to safe zones," Maggie said. "You didn't check in with authorities to make your survival known."

"I never saw a notice," Andrea lied. Michonne shook her head to go along with it.

"If there were notices where we were, they were torn down or missing," Michonne said. "Maybe they got rained on. We never saw anything."

"No signs of government or—anything," Andrea said.

"You were picked up not eight miles from Zone Seven," Maggie said. "It was a major zone. Surely you saw something. You heard traffic or you saw the lights? You noticed construction?"

"We weren't out at night," Michonne said. "The Dead were more active at night. It wasn't safe to be out then. Before the sun went down we always took cover. We never saw any government officials. We didn't know about any zones."

"You had a child," Maggie said, seeming to redirect things. "A boy that was relocated to a children's home." Andrea nodded her head. "Examinations confirmed he was your biological child." Andrea nodded again. "How did you get pregnant in the wild? When you didn't even know there were other people around besides yourselves?"

"I never said we didn't know there were other people out there," Andrea said. She shook her head. "There were people. We just—didn't see anyone from the government. We didn't see anywhere safe. But there were a lot of other people out there. There were a lot of small groups."

"And the baby's father?" Maggie asked.

"Didn't survive," Michonne said quickly. "A lot of people just—didn't survive."

"How many people have you killed in addition to the guard that you murdered, Andrea?" Maggie asked.

Andrea swallowed hard and Michonne felt her pulse pick up. The guard's death wasn't Andrea's doing. It never had been.

"None," Andrea said.

"You never killed anyone besides the guard?" Maggie asked. Andrea shook her head and, once more, Maggie directed the question to Michonne.

"I don't know," Michonne said. "I blocked it out. I never killed anyone that I didn't have to kill to survive. That's what it was all about. Survival."

"How do you feel about being in a safe zone now?" Maggie asked.

"Is Woodbury a safe zone?" Andrea asked.

"It's a type of safe zone," Maggie responded. "How do you feel about being brought in out of the wild?"

"I'm happy for the chance to—become civilized again," Andrea said. Her words came out with a slight hint of question to them, but Maggie jotted them down anyway.

"Me too," Michonne added. "I'm happy for the chance to start over. Have a new life. Return to being the person I was before the turn."

"Andrea, were you angry about the loss of your son?" Maggie asked.

Andrea stared at her. Michonne knew that their instinct was to answer everything in the most positive light possible, but there simply wasn't a positive way to answer that question. And to say that she hadn't been upset would be to lie too obviously. Maggie would know that she was keeping the truth from her.

"He was my baby," Andrea said. "I don't think—any mother is ever happy to lose her baby. Would you be?"

"I don't have any children," Maggie said.

"Maybe you will, one day. You're a woman," Andrea said. "At least you could imagine. Because, I hope, you don't—I hope that you don't ever know. Not from experience."

Michonne's stomach tightened and she had to admit that she was proud of Andrea for the answer. It was honest, but it wasn't accusatory and it didn't attack anyone. It didn't even attack the system. It simply spoke about Andrea's own personal feelings of loss.

"Are you happy about this baby, Andrea?" Maggie asked.

Andrea nodded her head.

"Very," she said. "I don't think I could be any happier. I think—maybe you'll find that's true of a lot of people in Woodbury. Especially if they lost children."

"The baby's like everything else," Michonne said. "We're happy for a chance at a new beginning. We're happy that Woodbury is giving us that chance."


	72. Chapter 72

**AN: Here we go. Very short time jump in this one that's explained in the chapter.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"OK, Daddy, you want to do this?" Alice asked.

Carol laughed to herself when she saw the slightly horrified expression cross Daryl's face at the thought of giving her the hormone injection. It was the first time he'd been invited to come to any kind of "appointment" with her and he'd been watching everything so closely that Carol thought he could probably handle any of her appointments himself from here out.

That was, as long as he didn't have to do anything that involved making Carol even the slightest bit uncomfortable for even the shortest amount of time.

"You uh...looks like you got it," Daryl said.

"It's really not hard," Alice said. "If you want to do it. It's a way to get involved."

"I think I'm good," Daryl insisted.

Rather than try to coax him to do it for her, Alice gave Carol the injection herself while Daryl hovered and asked a dozen or more questions about what the hormones were for, if they hurt, what the burning felt like, and finally, what would happen if they were to stop them.

"I'm not sure what'll happen when we stop them," Alice said. "We're lessening her dose already, and nothing's happening that we don't want to happen, so we'll go from there."

"And what if something does happen?" Daryl asked.

"Then we'll try to fix it," Alice said, straightening herself up to dispose of the syringe. "We're doing everything we can to make this a smooth and uneventful pregnancy. Carol? You can strip down and get on the table when you're ready."

Carol shimmied out of her pants and laughed to herself over the fact that Daryl was watching that too with the same interest he'd been watching everything else. When she'd been pregnant with Sophia, her husband hadn't bothered to come to any of her appointments. They weren't really about him, in his opinion, and they'd be boring. Daryl, however, didn't seem to find them boring at all. To throw him a bone, and let him do something he wouldn't find objectionable, Carol asked him to help her arrange the blanket over herself and he quickly obliged her, almost tucking her in like she was going to take a nap instead of submit herself for further examination.

"You want me to like just stand here?" Daryl asked. "Or I hold your hand or—how does it work? What do I do?"

Carol offered him her hand and puckered her lips at him quickly. She winked at him to try to relieve the concern on his features and for just a second he seemed to relax a little.

"You're doing just what you're supposed to do," she assured him. "Stand with me. Alice is going to explain everything when we get to see the baby."

"That I am," Alice said. "But—baby is very small and doesn't look a whole lot like a baby. And Alice is still not absolutely perfect at the pointing everything out. So forgive me a little if you don't see as much as you want to see. Scooch down for me, Carol?"

Carol turned her attention away from Daryl for a moment and focused on the ceiling, willing herself to relax as much as possible for Alice's examination. Daryl rubbed her hand in his, keeping a rhythm he set for himself, and waited.

"What are you doing now?" He asked Alice.

Alice laughed quietly to herself.

"I am checking everything out," Alice said. "I'm just checking to make sure it looks like her body is in this for the long haul. No signs that the baby wants to come soon."

"Did you find anything?" Daryl asked.

"Not a thing," Alice said. "And that's just the way I like it. Carol? Just relax. Take a deep breath? This might be a little uncomfortable, but you just let me know if it's too uncomfortable."

"What're you doing now?" Daryl asked. He looked at Carol and lowered his voice like he thought he might distract Alice. Carol didn't know how to tell him that she'd seen Alice do sonograms before and he wasn't going to break her concentration, at least not when she needed it. "What's she doin' now?"

"I'm not doing anything to worry about," Alice told Daryl. "I can hear you. This is how we're going to see the baby. At least until the baby gets a little bit bigger. Right now the baby's going to look a lot like a big jelly bean with some tiny little arms and legs and a heartbeat. Here—look at my screen."

Carol looked at the screen then, but she couldn't tell anything. It had been the same for her when she'd been pregnant with Sophia and it had been the same for her, even, when she'd been watching Alice perform the same procedures on Andrea. She knew what it was all supposed to mean, but she couldn't really see much.

Daryl leaned over her a little like getting closer to the screen might help him see something, but his furrowed brows and the quick look he gave her told her that he didn't see anything either.

"That's a baby?" Daryl asked.

"That—is actually her cervix," Alice said. She smiled at Daryl. "Don't worry, you don't have one. And hers looks just like I want it to look. And that—that is an ovary. And that? Right there? That's another one. She's only got two, so that checks out just right. I just have to get measurements."

"Take your time," Carol said quickly. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Where's the baby?" Daryl asked. "I mean, he's in there..."

Alice laughed.

"He's absolutely in there," Alice said. "And—there is his little hiding place." She stood up slightly from her stool and got closer to the screen before she sat down again.

"Something wrong?" Carol asked.

"Relax," Alice reminded her. "That's you moving the screen around. Nothing's wrong. We're at—about seven weeks. And there is the baby. See head and—arm and the other arm is hiding at this angle. Oh—arm. Leg and right there, you can barely see is the other little leg bud. And that—well—that's the sac that the baby's in and—that...well, that's the ummm...that's the other sac."

"Is he supposed to have two of 'em?" Daryl asked.

Alice raised her eyebrows at him and then shook her head gently.

"No, it's a one sac a piece deal," Alice said. "But—it looks like this pregnancy is a two for one deal. So it evens out."

Carol started to sit up, but she thought better of it and lowered herself back down against the table.

"What does that mean, exactly, Alice?" She asked.

Alice looked at her with the same expression that every child ever used to say that it feared it had made a mistake.

"You asked me to help you get pregnant," Alice said. "I guess—you could say I did my job pretty well because we've got two babies." She hesitated a second. "Congratulations!" She said, raising her eyebrows at Carol.

Carol wasn't sure how she felt and she glanced at Daryl like he might tell her how he felt—and by that she could gauge how she felt. He'd dropped her hand and he was gnawing at his thumb while he stared at the screen with a concerned expression.

"At the same time?" Daryl asked.

Carol bit her lip. Maybe he was feeling just exactly the same way she was. She didn't know how to take it all in and neither did he.

"At the same time," Alice confirmed. As if they might have missed it the first time, she pointed the sacs out to them again, their two babies appearing as really nothing more than dark and light contrasting circles to Carol. "That's—we'll call that baby one. And there's number two."

"There's two of 'em?" Daryl asked.

"Two," Alice confirmed.

"At the same time?" Daryl asked again.

"At the same time," Alice confirmed once more. "I believe that—we usually call that twins. Two of them, at the same time, I mean. I think the technical term is twins. Fraternal. These came from two different eggs. That means that they're not—they're not identical. One didn't split. They're siblings, born at the same time. Twins."

"Twins," Daryl said, repeating the word, his eyes not moving from the screen.

"Do you want to sit down, Daryl?" Alice asked. He glanced at her then. "Do you want to sit down? For a minute? You can pull that chair over here and you can sit down for a minute."

Daryl followed her indication to find the chair. Whether or not he wanted to sit down, he seemed to feel like he should since she'd pointed it out. He went for the chair and returned, carrying it with him. He sat down and returned his thumb to his mouth. Carol watched him, still not sure what she even felt besides concern for how he was processing things.

"Daryl?" Carol asked. He glanced at her before he returned his eyes to the screen like he was afraid of missing an important play in a game. "Are you OK?"

"Yeah," Daryl said quickly, though with little conviction. "Yeah," he repeated. This time with more conviction. "There's—uh—there's two of 'em, Carol. At the same time. In there."

Carol bit her lip. For at least a moment, Daryl seemed to forget that "in there" was inside her body. But as soon as she thought about it, she felt a little lightheaded and she was glad that she was already lying on the table. She stopped trying to hold even her head up and sucked in a breath to feel like she was getting a little more air into her lungs.

"Carol?" Alice asked. "Are _you_ OK? I need some communication here from someone."

Carol closed her eyes. She knew that this wasn't something that she was going to come to terms with at this very moment. It wasn't even going to sink in for her right away. It was going to take time. She hadn't fully adjusted to the idea that she was even pregnant. She'd hoped that seeing the proof would help that sink in for her as something undeniable. She hadn't expected it to add a whole other level of things to be dealt with.

"Twins?" Carol asked.

"Twins," Alice said. "To be honest? I had some suspicions. Your HCG was pretty high and sometimes that can be an indication, but I couldn't be sure."

Carol nodded her head more to herself than to anyone else. She swallowed.

"Are you sure that's all?" Carol asked, her stomach suddenly lurching at the tabloid horrors she'd read on grocery store shelves that talked about things like octomom and her litter of children. "There's just two."

"There's only two," Alice said. "You can look again. I haven't changed the screen. Just taken some measurements and—I'll print a picture out for you. See? Arrows pointing to one and two."

Carol laughed to herself.

"Thing one and thing two," she said. "Sophia loved the Cat in the Hat." She breathed out. " _Shit_ —shit... _two_?"

"Two of 'em," Daryl commented. Carol didn't look at him, but she imagined he was still bothering his poor thumb in an effort to soothe himself through the shock.

"Two," Alice said. "Twins. Both of them. In there."

"Are they healthy?" Carol asked. "That's all I want to know. Are they healthy?"

"Everything looks perfect," Alice said. "Everything's just as it should be. You're handling the pregnancy well. They look—they _both_ look great. I've got two arm buds for both. Two leg buds. And—we have a little movement here. There's been a little wiggling around. I think they might be trying to sleep though."

Carol nodded her head to herself again.

"Daryl?" She asked.

He hummed at her.

"Yeah?" He asked.

"We have two babies," Carol said. "And—both of them are healthy."

"I heard that part," he confirmed.

Carol reached a hand out in what she knew to be his direction and she was pleased when he took it and squeezed it warmly in his.

"You OK?" Carol asked.

He hummed again.

"You?" He asked.

"They're both healthy," Carol said. "We've got twins, and they're both healthy."

"And listen to this," Alice said. "This one is—this is the first one. That's the heartbeat. And the rate is right on point." Carol heard the sound of the heartbeat, strong and fast, and she closed her eyes for a moment to the feeling that flooded her chest at the sound. Daryl rubbed his fingers across her hand in response to the sound. She thought she might feel his hand shaking, but she wasn't going to point it out to him, especially not in front of Alice. "And this—is the second heartbeat. That's really nice. That sounds just beautiful."

Carol wiped at her face with her hand, surprising herself to find that her eyes were leaking tears.

"It does," she said, swallowing back the lump in her throat. "It does sound—pretty _incredible_."

Alice laughed quietly.

"Pretty incredible," she said. "I've got what I need here. And I got—a pretty good picture for you. Is there anything else you want to see? Mama? Daddy?"

"No," Carol said. "No—I think, for right now? I think I'm OK. Daryl?" He looked at her with some question. "Is there anything else you want to see?"

Daryl shook his head.

"No," he said, almost looking like he was waking from a dream. "No. I'm—I'm good." He seemed to realize that he should say something to Alice, so he nodded his head in her direction. "Thank you," he said. "Thanks for—thanks."

Alice snorted at him.

"Not a problem," she said. "I think that maybe both of you need to go home. I'm writing you passes for the rest of the day. Just—go home and let this sink in, maybe. But you don't have to worry. It all looks good."

Carol stayed in her position until Alice had washed her hands and come back. She offered Carol a hand and helped her get into a sitting position again, though Carol didn't actually need the help.

"Are you mad?" Alice asked. "That there's two?"

Carol shook her head.

"I honestly—I don't know _what_ I am," Carol said. "But I'm not mad. But, Alice, what does this mean for the rest of the pregnancy?"

Alice nodded her understanding.

"We'll figure that out as we go along," Alice said. "The same as we said before. Right now? It doesn't mean anything. Maybe your symptoms are a little more severe. Maybe you need to rest a little more and watch your calorie intake a little more closely. But we'll figure everything else out as we go along." She squeezed Carol's shoulder. "You look wonderful and both the babies look wonderful. There's nothing to worry about here." Daryl got to his feet and moved the chair back to where he'd gotten it before he offered a hand out to Alice. She took it and shook it, smiling at him as she did. "How're you doing, Daddy?" She asked.

Daryl nodded his head at her quickly.

"Yeah," he said. He smiled. It was the first time he'd smiled since they got in there. "Yeah, I'm alright. I'm alright and—uh—what am I supposed to do? For—for Carol? For—you know..."

"Make sure she rests," Alice said. "When she's tired. Make sure she rests and she eats. Lots of fluids. And—a little TLC wouldn't hurt. I prescribe back rubs and foot rubs to everyone. Helps with circulation and soreness. And there's a lot to be said for touch therapy. Good for both parents."

"He takes care of me already," Carol offered. She saw Daryl puff up slightly. Praise, she had learned, went a long way with Daryl, and she had no problem praising him. He earned it and she was glad to freely give it.

"Go home," Alice said. "Relax. Let it sink in. If you want a pass to—go down to the warehouse? Just look around at some baby things? I'll write you one of those too. You just call and tell them you have a pass and they'll send an officer. It might help. It helps get some people—in the mood or something. Helps it all sink in."

"I think there's a lot of sinking in that needs to happen," Carol said, accepting her clothes when Daryl brought them to her to slip back into. "But—we might take you up on that. If Daryl feels like baby shopping. It sound like we're going to need a lot of things."


	73. Chapter 73

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

The guard that escorted them to the warehouse seemed nice enough, though he'd hardly spoken a word to either Carol or Daryl except for asking them for the pass that Alice gave them that allowed them to go to the place where he was assigned to take them. The warehouse was just exactly what its name suggested it was. Carol had only been in there once, but it reminded her of the Costco that she'd been to before the turn. The only differences, perhaps, were that it was smaller and it wasn't really built for shoppers to spend time in. Orders were brought there, they were filled, and then they left out—there wasn't much room between shelves for lingering or browsing and the citizens were rarely even let into the space to do such browsing. Guards and "citizen employees" were usually responsible for filling orders that they delivered in bags or baskets.

The guard that was sitting on a stool near the entrance looked like he'd spent most of his career since the turn, and maybe even before the turn, holding down a stool. He looked like he hated the idea of leaving it even to do his assigned work. He scowled at both of them as they approached, their escort leaving them since he considered his job to be done, and held his hand out.

"Pass?" He asked. Carol handed him the piece of paper that they'd been sure to bring with them out of the several pieces of paper that Alice had given them upon leaving her office. He eyed Carol, apparently searching out some proof of her pregnancy, but she wasn't sure that he'd find much. "You got a document of registration?" He asked. "Can't let nobody order nursery furniture that don't show me a document of registration."

Carol looked at the other papers in her hands. Since she hadn't known what to bring, she'd brought everything except the sonogram picture. She found what she thought he wanted and she handed him the document. The others she folded and handed to Daryl to tuck into his pocket.

"You can sign me up," Carol said. "Or write my name down, or whatever it is that you do. I'm pregnant."

"Twice as much as anybody else you got here," Daryl pointed out.

The man studied the document and looked at Carol again. He smiled to himself.

"You look too damn little to be pregnant with twins," he said.

"She ain't gonna stay that way long for long," Daryl pointed out, clearly feeling a little offended that the man might even think of questioning the validity of something they'd been struggling to come to terms with since Alice had told them the news.

The man hummed and walked to the door. He held it open for them to pass inside and Carol stepped in first. It was just as she'd remembered the place being, nearly wall to wall shelving, except there was more stock there now than there had been when she'd come before. Inside, there were a few people that were walking around filling orders, but mostly the building was empty. The heavy guard caught Daryl's arm before he stepped in the door and, without truly trying to hide what he was saying to him, spoke to Daryl.

"You can do that trick again," the man said, "and make two of 'em? If you ain't too attached to that one they'd likely let you take your pick of the women around here. Two at a time and all?"

Daryl frowned at the man.

"I'm attached," he said as his only response before he stepped fully into the door and followed Carol. The guard quickly stepped around them, not apologizing for his statement at all, and guided them where they should apparently be going. When they finally reached the section that Carol assumed housed all the baby supplies, she was surprised to see the fairly slim amount of choices. There were a few pieces of furniture, but no more than three of anything. Besides that, there were a few shelves of options.

The heavy guard gestured to it.

"This is what we got. The way it works is that I'ma register you with this document. That puts you down as getting a request list for anything you might want. But you don't order everything at once and you don't order it all in one place. Any clothes you need for when you're fatter? That goes on the laundry list same as all your clothes. Baby clothes are standard issue. You got three choices of looks or whatever and they send a variety of 'em. Diapers are cloth, they go on that list. Same with blankets and sheets and all that stuff. If it's cloth? It's laundry, don't send it to us. This here? This is the nursery furniture. You got your choices here of colors but these are just for lookin' at. You make your choices and you tell me. I put in the order. When they get a truck together, they deliver it and it comes to your house. All the other stuff? You order it from here but you can take home what you want with you now. Baskets are up at the front, by the door, and you'll return it with your other delivery baskets."

"We understand," Carol offered. When he simply backed away a bit, though, and stood with his arms crossed, it was clear to Carol that they weren't going to be left there long to do their browsing, and they weren't going to be left alone. "Daryl? Can you—grab a basket?"

Daryl glanced at the guard, nodded at Carol, and quickly walked in the direction where the guard had gestured that he'd find the baskets. Out of the corner of her eye, as she looked at some of the assorted items on the shelf, Carol saw the guard watching her. She was free to take anything she wanted, but he was watching her almost like he suspected her of shoplifting. As soon as Daryl returned with the basket, Carol quickly dropped a few items into it without even really thinking about what she was grabbing. There would be plenty of time, she knew, to order more of anything she might decide she wanted.

Then she walked over to the cribs. She caught Daryl's hand and tugged at it so that he'd come to stand with her. She could tell that he was uncomfortable and she suspected, because he made her uncomfortable too, that it was the presence of the guard that was doing it.

"Which one do you like?" Carol asked. "Or—which color do you like? For the babies. White, light wood, or dark wood?"

"Get whatever you want," Daryl said. "It don't matter to me."

Carol sucked in a breath and ran her hand over the side of the crib that was closest to her. Touching it made her breath catch in her lungs. Just the thought of having a crib—or two—that she actually had to use again was difficult. Touching the wood, she realized that she hadn't really digested everything and there was a lot that she still needed to think about.

"I want you to choose, Daryl," Carol said. "Whatever you pick? It will be perfect. What do you like the best for the—for the nursery?"

Daryl looked around, walked around the cribs like he was checking out every inch of them to see if they were different, and then he stood nipping at the piece of skin on his thumb that he'd been worrying with since they'd been inside the clinic.

"I like the light one," Daryl said.

Carol smiled at him.

"Yeah?" She asked. He nodded. "That's the one I like the best too," Carol said. "We'll order—everything in the light wood. Or did you want them to be two different colors?"

Carol hoped he wouldn't want two different colors, but more than that she hoped he'd feel involved in the process somehow and, at the moment, the choice of nursery furniture was the best that she could offer him. Before Daryl could speak, though, to let her know what he wanted, there was a squelching hiss from the guard's radio that caught their attention and a voice came through requesting to know the guard's whereabouts. The voice identified the man as "Fuller."

"In the warehouse," Fuller responded. "Got a register. Pickin' out furniture. Over."

"We got a F12 in progress. Lock down and secure all prisoners," the voice radioed back.

Carol felt her blood run cold and her chest caught to the point that she wasn't sure if her heart had simply stopped beating for a moment. Fuller switched the dial on his radio and pressed the button to speak into it.

"Smith, you outside?" He asked. Whoever he was speaking to radioed back that he was on his way back and would be there in a matter of minutes. "Lockdown when you come," Fuller responded. Smith confirmed, as Carol suspected he might, that he would do just that.

"What's going on?" Carol asked.

Fuller stepped toward her, taking handcuffs from the belt that he wore.

"Turn around," he said. "We're under lockdown. I have to secure you."

Daryl quickly stepped in front of Carol and put his hand up like he might push Fuller backward. Carol knew that might not be the best thing that Daryl could do at the moment, so she put her hands on his shoulders to draw him backward.

"What are we under lockdown for?" Daryl asked.

"I have to secure both of you," Fuller responded to him.

"What the hell for?" Daryl asked. "What's a F12 and why the hell you gotta cuff us? We ain't doing nothing but picking out cribs for babies!"

Fuller looked irritated, but the man was unarmed except for what appeared to be a flashlight that he could have used as a weapon if he chose to do so. Fuller didn't really seem the kind of man, though, that was motivated to engage in hand to hand combat with anyone. At least, not unless he absolutely had to.

"An F12 is a fugitive prisoner," Fuller responded. "We're under lockdown and all prisoners have to be secured until the fugitive is apprehended and the situation is under control."

"We ain't prisoners here," Daryl said.

"For the time being, you are," Fuller said. "We can do this easily or I can radio for backup and report that we have others trying to go fugitive. The choice is yours."

"We don't want to go anywhere," Carol said quickly. "Fugitive or—or anywhere else. We'd rather be in here...where it's safe."

Carol didn't think it was important that what she feared, out there, wasn't whoever it was that was making some kind of break for what would surely be a short burst of freedom followed by their death, but rather the guards that would be pursuing the individual and would, more than likely, not be thinking about what harm they might cause others.

"We ain't goin' nowhere," Daryl said. "And we ain't prisoners and we ain't fugitives. But you ain't gonna cuff us because it don't make sense."

"I have to secure you to make sure that you're not going to try anything," Fuller said, suddenly looking a little more bored with the argument than truly angry.

"What the hell we gonna try that we wouldn't have already tried?" Daryl asked. "There ain't no doubt there's a dozen guards out there ready to shoot us down. Maybe that many people running that's willing to do what they gotta do—including mow us down—to get the hell outta here. But cuffing us is some dumb shit because if they get in here? I'ma knock some damn body's ass out if they come at us. Cuffing me? Just means you makin' it harder for us to help _you_."

Carol squeezed Daryl's shoulders to remind him to lower his voice—and maybe to check his temper. Fuller didn't seem dedicated to cuffing them at the moment, or to calling for better armed backup, and it was best to keep things that way.

"It's protocol to secure you," Fuller said. "To ensure your safety and my safety. And for the safety of any other guard."

"That's bullshit and you know it," Daryl said. "It ain't got a thing to do with our safety. Got to do with you. But we ain't threatening you. So how about—we stand over here with our hands in the air. Right where you can see 'em? You don't touch us, we don't touch you."

"Daryl," Carol offered, "it's really not important."

"It is important," Daryl said. "Get to touching and the next thing you know? You sneeze and he's got you on the ground."

"Keep your hands where I can see them," Fuller said, apparently deciding that it wasn't worth his effort or the struggle that it was likely to turn into. "All four of them. You try anything at all, and I'll have backup in here in a matter of minutes. There's somebody just outside the door."

Daryl backed up, standing beside Carol, and both of them did as they were instructed, holding their hands up in front of them. Carol's concerns, at that moment, turned from Fuller—who really didn't seem like much of a threat to her as long as she stayed still as he'd requested—to the sounds outside. There was a good bit of yelling going on—none of which was really clear to her—and every now and again Fuller's radio squelched and made her jump. Nobody said anything on the radio, though.

Not until there was a series of unmistakable snaps outside that sounded like firecrackers going off in a closed metal can.

The radio squelched one more time and finally a voice came over the slightly static filled line.

"Lockdown has been raised," the voice said. "Return all prisoners to their residences immediately and secure them. Situation has been defused."


	74. Chapter 74

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"Andrea's a special case, that's all," Alice said.

Melodye's partner outweighed her by probably half her own body weight. Alice was taller than her too, by several inches, even though Alice wasn't a large woman by any stretch of the imagination. Since they'd begun dating, though, long before the turn of the world, Alice had always joked that she was Melodye's protector. She, as the bigger of the two of them, was the _muscle_ in the relationship. And in a few situations they'd been in, Alice had stepped up to prove that the role—though she may not really be suited for it—was one that she was willing to take on.

But if Alice was the muscle, Melodye knew that it was—and always had been—her job to keep Alice's feet on the ground, even if she didn't ever really let Alice know about her role.

As they moved as quickly as they could through the community, Melodye kept her pace matched with Alice's despite the difference in their strides. She listened to Alice filling her in on a job that she'd already been briefed on, and she grabbed Alice's arm in time to distract her from looking at the body that was still lying in the street and, more than likely, would lie there for at least the rest of the day.

It wasn't easy to look at the remains of a human being shot down in cold blood, but it was easier for Melodye to do it than it was for Alice to do it.

"Al, I think I got it," Melodye said. "And I believe—this is my job, you know? That's why they hired me to do it."

"I'm not doubting that, Mel," Alice responded. "But I know Milton gave you limited information. I'm just trying to help you out. From someone who's been working with Andrea since she got here."

Melodye stopped their forward progress and grabbed Alice's shoulder to bring her skidding to halt when she didn't recognize that Melodye had fallen out of step with her.

"I understand, Al," Melodye said, trying to put the correct amount of force behind her words. "Wild A. I know. I understand. I read the original reports. I heard everything that you heard. I heard a little more, even. Wild A? She's massively important in the world of Wild psych. In fact, until now? Until Wave Thirty Three? There hasn't been a single development in psychology that's been more important than Wild A since the turn."

Alice frowned at Melodye, her deep involvement in the project showing on her features.

"Andrea is a human being, Mel," Alice said, almost begging her with her voice. "She's just a human being. And she's hurt. She's been hurt a lot before. And she's scared and she's—she's isolated. She just wants to live a peaceful existence with people she cares about and she wants to care for her baby. That's it."

Melodye nodded her head.

"And that's what we're trying to make happen, right?" Melodye asked.

"I don't know," Alice said. "Because I don't know what you know that—I don't know."

"Alice—I'm not lying to you," Melodye said. "I've told you everything I know. I know—just what Milton needs me to know. I know that I have to go in there and I have to talk to Andrea. I have to ask her these questions and I need honest answers from her. Real ones. Not the ones she's inclined to give Maggie because these? They're going to Milton and that's what's going to really matter. I believe that everyone is going to get through this and this project? It's going to change the world. At least, it's going to change _their_ world and the lives of every Wild in captivity and still out there."

"Can you bring them back?" Alice asked, her eyes darting from side to side as she tried desperately to read Melodye's thoughts to see if there was something there she might be hiding. Melodye furrowed her brows at Alice.

"Bring who back?" Melodye asked.

"If they break them," Alice said, "can you bring them back?"

Melodye sucked in a breath and held it, considering how she might answer Alice's concerns. Finally, she nodded her head at her.

"Even if they break," Melodye said, "I can bring them back. But you and me? We're not going to let them break." She held her hand out to offer Alice the bag that she was carrying. "Here, take the bag. You're up first."

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Melodye walked in right behind Alice when Alice opened the door and announced her presence to Andrea. For a moment, the house was so still that it might have been abandoned, but then Melodye saw Andrea sitting on the couch, her hands held up in surrender, while the television flickered the "news" that it had to offer the citizens of Woodbury. Today's news was all about what had happened—and it served as a warning to everyone.

"You can put your hands down," Alice said, doing her best to keep up the cheer that she tried to wear everywhere for the benefit of her patients. "I brought you something to celebrate."

"What am I celebrating?" Andrea asked.

"Crossing the first trimester off the to-do list," Alice said.

Melodye kept quiet. She wasn't foolish enough to think that Andrea hadn't noticed her presence, but her ultimate goal at the moment was to simply be present in Andrea's environment as a non-threatening entity.

Alice went into the kitchen, gathered glasses out of the cabinet herself, and carried them with the bag into the living room. As someone already welcome in the house, she sat down without asking permission and put the glasses on the table before she produced a bottle of fruit juice from the bag. Melodye made a mental note of Andrea's physical recoil at the sight of the bottle, even if she wasn't going to make any moves to write it down for herself just yet.

"I don't want that," Andrea said.

"Water, then?" Alice asked.

"I'm not thirsty," Andrea responded. Alice, in response, reached and took Andrea's hand. She quickly pinched up the skin on Andrea's hand and frowned at her.

"You're dehydrated," Alice responded. "Which is nothing unusual. And, frankly, it's starting to piss me off. So juice or water? Your call."

Andrea rolled her eyes in Melodye's direction, the first clear sign that she was even aware of her presence, and Melodye walked closer to her, putting herself fully in the space of the living room.

"The juice is good," Melodye offered. "Arrived fresh this morning."

"Liquid and nutrients," Alice said, pouring it into the glasses. She took one and offered the other to Andrea. Andrea watched Melodye, but with a little nudging she finally took the glass that Alice kept bumping against her hand.

One of the reasons that Alice was good at her job was that, like a little child, she had persistence that never ran out. It was also one of the reasons that Melodye felt like the two of them had made it through everything they'd ever had to overcome together. Nobody could resist Alice. And if they tried? She'd just badger them until they gave up the fight.

"You can drink your juice, Andrea," Melodye offered quietly. She gave Andrea the best and most reassuring smile she could. "Can I sit?" She got a nod and she took a seat in a chair that gave her a good view of the couch. She moved her pad to her lap, but she didn't look at it or show that she intended to use it in any way. "Do you remember me? We met—in the clinic?"

"Melodye," Andrea confirmed. "You were here when..."

"I was," Melodye said quickly, fully intending to cut Andrea off before she could put too much voice to what were likely bad memories. She didn't want any more negative associations there than were already cemented. "When you saw the baby. How is the baby? Any movement yet?"

"No," Andrea said. She looked at Alice and Alice shook her head before directing her own response to Melodye.

"Could be too soon," Alice said. "Maybe it won't be long, but it's too soon right now." Reminded of the juice that they'd brought, Alice bumped Andrea's glass with her hand and Andrea somewhat reluctantly tasted the juice. Apparently, though, seeing that nothing was going to happen to her and having missed the flavor of the liquid, she drained the glass after her first hesitant taste. It was progress. Minor, perhaps, but progress nonetheless, and Melodye was happy to see it.

"Baby likes fruit?" Melodye asked. Alice refilled Andrea's glass, mostly ignoring the juice she'd poured for herself as a sign of solidarity. Andrea drank half the glass like it was the most delicious thing she'd ever tasted before she nodded at Melodye and muttered something along the lines of "yep." "Any other cravings?" Melodye asked.

"Raisins," Andrea said.

Melodye laughed to herself.

"Just raisins?" She asked. "Not raisins with—with asparagus or something?" Andrea shook her head. "Raisins sound pretty tame."

"I never liked raisins," Andrea pointed out. "But now? I can't get enough of them. Every morning when we place our order? They bring them in these little tiny boxes and every morning I have to ask them for like twenty of the little boxes. They should just bring them in bulk."

Feeling like things were at least calming down a little, and the tension wasn't quite as high in the room as it had been, Melodye got a little more comfortable in her seat. She caught Alice's eye and nodded her head. Alice put the bottle of juice on the table and got to her feet. Andrea almost seemed startled and started to stand with her, but Alice waved her back down.

"I've got to make a couple of rounds," Alice said. "I just wanted to congratulate you on what's—what's actually a pretty big milestone. An important one. Mel, here, she's going to take care of you. Hang out with you for a little while. I'll swing back by later and see what I can do about some bulk raisins."

Affectionately, Andrea reached a hand out and caught Alice's arm. She gave it a squeeze and Alice caught Andrea's hand in response to offer the same squeeze. In her own silent way—and Melodye hoped it was a way that Andrea could understand—Alice was trying to tell Andrea that it was OK.

Melodye didn't speak again until Alice left the house and, finding herself alone with Andrea, she knew that she had to say something to keep any progress made between them from being lost in silence.

"Alice wants what's best for you," Melodye said. "I do. Milton does. Andrea—none of us want to hurt you. We don't want to hurt you or your baby or—or anyone, really."

"Except when you do," Andrea said. Melodye shook her head and Andrea gestured toward the television. "How many people did they kill? How many _animals_?"

Melodye nodded her understanding. The news was unsettling to them all—and it was meant to be.

"Just one," Melodye said. "Two tried to escape. One was caught and the other wouldn't stop."

"What happened to the one that was caught?" Andrea asked.

"He was—removed from Woodbury. Taken back to the prison," Melodye said.

Andrea sat up and changed her position so that she was facing Melodye.

"What happened to him?" Andrea asked, something in her voice telling Melodye that she already knew the answer.

"Nobody was told," Melodye said. "But—if I had to guess? He was driven about a mile and a half out. There's a stretch of road there that—where there's not really that many people around. It's a nowhere stretch between here and there. More than likely they unloaded him there and they— _euthanized_ him."

"Euthanized him," Andrea repeated. "Exterminated him. Shot him in the head and left him there to rot. Call it what you want, it's all the same thing. And why? Because he wanted the freedom they promised us. And now? They're saying this could set us back. It could set back—freedom for everyone. It could be longer before the citizens earn any rights. Longer before they're allowed some freedoms. It doesn't matter to me, though, because I'm never getting out of here. I'm never leaving this house. I will die here, in this house. They'll never let me out because I'm Wild A."

Melodye swallowed.

If she'd had any expectation of what she'd be dealing with when she was left alone with Andrea, it wasn't this. She expected her private, inside-the-house persona to be a lot like the frightened Andrea that was the only one that she'd ever seen. She didn't realize, really, how much challenge was still down deep in the woman. She didn't realize how much they hadn't been able to beat out of her yet.

But she wasn't afraid of it. In fact, she was happy to see it. It made it easier, in her mind, to keep the promise that she'd made to Alice. If they were all like this? They wouldn't break. At least, most of them wouldn't. And if they did? She _could_ bring them back—just as long as they wanted to come back.

Melodye sat forward, closing the space between herself and Andrea a little more.

"You'll get out of this house," Melodye said. "You'll get out of Woodbury, if that's what you want. But when you go? You'll take everyone else with you. You're buying their freedom. You. Wild A. They're all here to help you. To further the project. But it's you who's buying the ticket out of here for everyone. Just telling you that, if you didn't already know it, could put me in hot water. But I want honesty from you, because that's the only way that anybody is getting out of here that isn't headed for that little stretch of land, so I'm going to be honest with you." Andrea set her eyes on Melodye. Melodye lowered her voice. She knew they were alone. She knew, for a fact, that the house wasn't bugged. But old habits die hard and not every private place was as private as it seemed. "You keep two stories always. The one you tell Maggie and the one you tell me. What you tell me gets into the right hands. But this is only going to work if you trust me. Understand?"

Andrea nodded her head.

"I understand," Andrea said.

"Thank you," Melodye said. "Just understand—nobody wants to hurt you. But some of what we have to talk about? It's going to hurt."

Andrea laughed to herself.

"Hurts for my own good?" She asked, a little sarcasm slipping into her voice.

"That's the idea," Melodye said. "You just have to trust me."

Andrea sat back in the couch, seeming to relax into the cushions again.

"Might as well," she said. "I've got relatively little left to lose."

"And everything to gain," Melodye agreed.


	75. Chapter 75

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **There's an AN for the end for anyone concerned about the fact that certain characters are handling the project much differently than others. Read if you want, ignore if you want.**

 **I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Carol's stomach was almost continuously growling at the smells that her nose was picking up, but she was ignoring it for the time being. She heard Daryl moving around again and she turned to see him peeking from around the short dividing wall that gave some privacy to their kitchen area.

"I thought I told you ten times to come the hell away from that window," Daryl said. "Sit down. I'm almost done here."

Carol cast one last glance out of the window before she sighed and went to sit at the little table like Daryl had asked her to do a dozen or more times.

From their house—and from their front window—they could see where the fellow inmate-turned-supposed-citizen had made their last stand. Or, rather, they could see where the bullet finally caught him. His body remained in the street, uncovered and uncared for, and every now and again various individuals came and walked around it, looking at it like they weren't sure what to do about it. Some took pictures of it—for what, Carol had no idea—but most simply stared at it and shared quick conversations that dissolved when they walked away.

"I don't understand why they're just leaving him there," Carol said, loudly enough for Daryl to hear. "Why aren't they doing anything about this?"

"They're doing what the hell they intend to do," Daryl said. "But it's more'n that."

He came quickly into the living room and put two glasses of water on the table. He disappeared again and came back with two bowls that he put down before starting back toward the kitchen.

"Can I help?" Carol asked.

"Nothin' to help with," Daryl said. "Told you to sit your ass down because I could handle it. That's what I'm doin'."

Carol rested her hand on her chin and propped her elbow on the table.

"I feel so guilty just sitting here," Carol pointed out as Daryl rounded the corner with plates. He laughed at her.

"Guilty for what?" He asked, putting the plates on the table. "Hell, I'm done."

"What is all this?" Carol asked.

"What the hell's it look like?" Daryl said with a laugh. "I didn't think I done that bad a job."

"Tomato soup and grilled cheese?" Carol asked.

"So it ain't that bad," Daryl responded.

"Why, Daryl?" Carol asked. "It'll be time to go to the mess hall soon."

"Eat," Daryl said. "Grilled cheese ain't no good when it's cold." He took his own advice and picked up half of his own sandwich. He didn't swallow the bite he was chewing through before he continued speaking. "If you ain't noticed, they don't know what the hell they doin' right now and they ain't a bit worried about us. We might not get dinner tonight. Might not get it until late if we do—and then we'll call it a midnight snack."

"There's a person's body laying out there," Carol pointed out.

The food, even if it was simple fare, was delicious. As soon as she tasted it, Carol figured it would be impossible to argue against eating the rest of it. A simple sandwich and a bowl of soup—made from the few ingredients that they'd requested days before for their kitchen—wasn't a very elaborate meal, but it was good. Maybe, Carol thought, it tasted even better because Daryl had made it for her and he'd made it with a good deal of care. She hadn't asked him to do it, he'd simply offered.

"It's gonna stay out there too," Daryl said, "until they figure out what they're gonna do with it."

"Take it to a morgue?" Carol offered. "Bury it?"

Daryl snorted.

"They ain't that worried about us," Daryl said. "Best case scenario is _maybe_ that man gets buried. Maybe he gets burned like they used to do at Alphabet Hill. More'n likely? He's gettin' chucked somewhere to just lay an' rot like the Walkers they put down."

"Oh," Carol said, cringing. "Could we not use any form of _rot_ over food?"

"Sorry," Daryl said quickly. "My point is just—they don't know what to do because they weren't expectin' to have to do it. They put it on the news to let everyone know they weren't bluffing. You run, you die. But most of us knowed they weren't bluffing no way. They just didn't figure nobody was gonna call 'em on it and now they don't—don't got in place, or whatever...what the hell they do _now_."

Carol thought about it while she ate her food, focusing as much as she could on simply enjoying the flavors, but it still bothered her that they didn't have enough respect for the citizens of Woodbury to even get their bodies out of the street. Of course, maybe they'd have treated the situation differently if he hadn't tried to run—but it was just a stark reminder that they were still prisoners here. They were still prisoners and they weren't cleared, yet, of their title as animals.

As though he could sense what she was feeling, Daryl chewed through part of his food and watched her across the table. Carol caught his eyes when she looked up.

"What?" Carol asked quietly.

"What the hell is happening out there? It ain't none of our business," Daryl said. "It don't concern us."

"He was one of us," Carol said.

Daryl shook his head.

"They said don't run," Daryl said. "Made it pretty clear. He ran and what happened to him was exactly what he knew was gonna happen. Don't look at me like that. I'm sorry it happened. Sorry it's going down the way it's going down, but he didn't follow the rules. And right now? That don't concern us. Because we're following all the rules and gettin' outta here the right way. What's going on out there? Don't concern us because we got enough concerning us in here. You gotta eat 'cause we got two kids now."

Carol shook her head.

"We don't have two kids," Carol said. "I'm pregnant but..."

"Good enough for me," Daryl said. He pointed at Carol with a piece of his sandwich in a manner that almost made her laugh at him and forget the seriousness of the moment. "We gotta focus on them now. Starts now. Gotta worry about what they need. And what they need? Is you to eat that sandwich and drink that soup and stop worrying about what's happening out there because there ain't nothing you can do about except maybe do somethin' stupid that just lands all of us—all _four_ of us—layin' in the street the same damn way." He shook his head. "And that? It just ain't happening. So eat."

Carol knew what Daryl was saying was the truth. Honestly they had no ability to change things. They knew the rules. The rules were simple, really. They had to remain in Woodbury and they had to go about their lives as citizens. They worked when they were told to work, they rested when they were given permission to rest, and they ate at meal times—unless they preferred to eat in their homes. They were supposed to live happy, peaceful lives in their homes and, with any luck, they were supposed to have children that, theoretically, would build the future generation that was—as Carol understood it—at risk of not existing if they didn't reproduce.

The rules were simple. Stay in line. Don't use violence against anyone. And, above all else, don't _run_.

"You're right," Carol said. Daryl looked at her. "You're right," she insisted again. "He shouldn't have run. And there's probably so much confusion because they thought—they thought it would be simple for us to follow the rules. They thought nobody would run."

"What the hell you running from anyway?" Daryl asked. "I mean—I gotta be honest. What the hell you running from? What did he have out there that was any better'n what he's got in here?"

Carol shrugged.

"Freedom?" She asked.

"Well that asshole just set us back," Daryl pointed out. "Accordin' to the channel? He just set us back, but we was set to get curfews in a week. That's what Grady told me. Was gonna lift the locks until after dinner time. Curfew come after you eat. Everybody inside for—well, hell, you might as well be inside after that anyways. What business you got out wanderin' around in the dark? But now? They said it's pushing everything back."

"Maybe he wanted more freedom than that," Carol said. "Maybe he didn't want anyone telling him what to do or when to do it."

Daryl shrugged his shoulders.

"Lived out there long enough," Daryl said. "Didn't have nobody telling me to find shelter at dark, but I did it just the same."

Carol hummed.

"Me too," she admitted.

Daryl thoughtfully chewed the last of his sandwich and stared at his plate. Carol offered him what was left of hers.

"More?" She asked. He looked at her.

"You gotta be kiddin'," he said. "Eat the whole sandwich, Carol. All the soup. You're like—three whole people eating over there and you're tryin' to give me your food?"

Carol shrugged.

"You looked hungry," she said.

"So I'll make another sandwich!" Daryl said. "We got enough food squirreled away in there to eat for two weeks like kings. "I ain't takin' food outta your mouth."

Carol laughed to herself.

"You know I'm not three people," Carol pointed out. "Alice said—what? She said I need to eat about three hundred extra calories a day."

" _Per kid_ ," Daryl said. "I'm like a hundred percent sure that was per kid and there's two of 'em and that's way on more than finishing a sandwich that you should eat anyway. That ain't no high calorie meal you got there."

"I'm eating," Carol pointed out. "I'm eating."

"All of it," Daryl said.

"All of it," Carol echoed.

"Good," Daryl said. "I'ma go make another sandwich. You want some more?"

"I haven't even eaten all of this," Carol said.

"Soup?" Daryl asked. "You don't even eat soup. Just drink it."

Carol shook her head.

"I think I'm fine here," Carol said.

Daryl got up to return to the kitchen. Carol heard him knocking around as he made another sandwich from the food that they had. She polished off her sandwich while she listened to him humming something while he prepared his.

Her brain felt like it was divided. It felt like it was struggling with two conflicting emotions that equally wanted dominance at the moment. On the one hand, she was aware that there were people coming and going outside—people who were deciding how to handle a situation that, maybe, they'd thought they'd never have to handle. There was chaos outside. There was death outside. But on the other hand? There was so much _life_ inside the safety of her own walls. There was so much life inside _her_. Carol still hadn't had a moment to sit down and really digest the news that they'd found out that day. She still felt that she hadn't fully _realized_ that what Alice said was true. Inside her, right at this very moment, there were two lives that were coming into being. And around her? Daryl was humming while he made seconds to a dinner that he'd prepared _for_ her.

When Daryl reappeared, putting his plate back on the table with his fresh sandwich, he furrowed his brows at her.

"What?" He asked.

"What?" Carol echoed.

"You got a face," Daryl said. "Something wrong? You feel OK?"

"No," Carol admitted. "I don't feel OK. I don't even know how I feel. Daryl—someone was killed outside and I feel horrible for that. But then—you made me dinner and nobody but you has made me dinner because they wanted to since—since my _mother_. And that makes me feel..."

"Makes you feel what?" Daryl asked, pushing her when she let the sentence trail off. Carol shrugged because she was almost choking on the words as surely as if part of the sandwich had gotten hung in her throat.

"Happy?" She said. "Loved? It makes me feel entirely—completely like I feel like I _shouldn't_ feel. Not with everything that's going on."

Daryl hummed and nodded his head.

"Told you," Daryl said. "What's goin' on out there? Don't concern us. I feel guilty because everybody's runnin' around talking about how everything's that happened to 'em's been the worst thing ever. Hell—this is the best damn thing that's ever happened to me. How twisted up you think I feel saying that? Feeling that?"

"I feel guilty being happy because...Sophia..." Carol offered.

Daryl shook his head.

"Don't," Daryl said. "You can't bring her back. If you could? You would. I know that. I'd bring her back too if they told me I could. But—you don't think she'da wanted you to spend the rest of your life miserable, do you?"

Carol shook her head. She sucked in a breath to remind herself that the choking sensation was just a sensation. She wasn't really choking. She could still inhale and exhale.

"No," Carol said. "Sophia was a—she was a natural little caregiver. She always wanted to look out for me out there while I was busy looking out for her."

"So you can't let that make you not happy," Daryl said. "'Cause then you disrespectin' her."

Carol nodded.

"It just feels strange being _happy_ ," Carol said. "Someone died today."

"Reckon someone dies every day," Daryl said blankly. "But it weren't me and it weren't you. So we gotta live."

Carol nodded at him again.

"You're right," Carol said.

Daryl laughed to himself.

"I'm always right," he said. He reached over and put half the sandwich on Carol's plate. "Eat that," he instructed. "I'm right about that, too. Before you even question it."

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

 **AN: I've seen it come up in a couple of reviews that Carol and Andrea (maybe among others) are handling the situation differently. I hoped to make it clear, but if I've failed to do that, I want to shine a little light on something. Carol/Daryl, Andrea/Michonne, Merle/Sadie, and Alice/Melodye/Samirah are all characters that we focus on. Each of these groups of people are living in an existence that's almost totally different than that of the other groups. They're all part of the same project, but they are in different roles. (In the prison, some of them shared the same reality, but that's changed now. Now they simply have the same background and a new existence.) Each group has a different kind of existence within the same world that shapes how they see things and how they deal with things. Their realities are different. So each of the differing POVS gives you (hopefully) a different angle with which to see the same project. I hope that clears things up a little. We're not actually seeing multiple people handle the same thing differently as much as we're seeing people handling different realities while each of them brings us a different take on the workings of Wave Thirty Three.**


	76. Chapter 76

**AN: Another chapter.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"Pass me that bag?" Alice requested, pointing somewhat in the direction of over Carol's shoulder and somewhere behind her. Turning around, Carol found the black bag in a matter of seconds. She was growing used to Alice's manner of organizing things and she could almost predict what the woman wanted before Alice even knew she wanted it.

Her days helping Alice, though, were pretty much the same every day. Carol was let out of her house early and she made the walk herself to Alice's office. She got there just about the time the first pot of coffee was brewed and she prepared Alice's coffee for her without being asked to do it while Alice sat, still looking half asleep, and went through the files on her computer that needed review. Then Carol tidied the office while Alice went through the box of "incoming" information that she got and sorted it, entered it into the computer, and put together her schedule for the day. Normally, at that point, Alice needed privacy to make phone calls that Carol wasn't supposed to overhear, so Carol was sent to pick up something or drop off something—and if there was nothing to do, she was sent to put in an order for Alice's lunch at the mess hall. Then it was time to take patients. Sometimes guards were dispatched to bring patients to the clinic. Other times, Alice simply went to her patients.

Today they'd spent most of the day going to the homes of patients. They were expanding the clinic and the noise was irritating to Alice so she was more inclined to want to leave as often as she could. It was almost lunch time, but it was clear that they weren't ready for their break yet. Alice was obviously preparing for another home visit.

"This is the only one you need?" Carol asked, shouldering the bag herself rather than offering it to Alice.

"Here...gimme," Alice said, signaling that she was going to take the bag. Carol passed it to her and Alice shouldered it herself. "I don't even need this one, but right now? It's better to have some clear and visible evidence of what you're doing."

Carol knew what Alice was talking about. Woodbury was still reeling from the attempted escape of two citizens-sometimes-known-as-inmates and it seemed to make some of the guards who worked there a little jumpy. Even when she was sent to pick up a supply order that had come in for Alice, Carol had carried one of Alice's clearly marked medical bags, along with her pass, to keep suspicions low. It would pass, Alice assured her, but for the moment it had everyone on overly-high alert.

"You work here," Carol said. "You can leave every day."

"And I do," Alice said. "But it's just easier not to get questioned about everything." She laughed to herself. "Like I even answer to them. But you have to figure, Carol, that it takes a certain personality for someone to _want_ to go into being a prison guard. I mean—it did back then, but it definitely does now. Come on. Let's go."

Alice's overall tone for the day suggested that she was tired and Carol doubted that it had anything to do with her quality of sleep the night before. What had happened was nothing more than a reminder of how far they still had to go, regardless of how far they'd come.

Carol followed Alice through the streets of Woodbury and didn't say anything else to the woman until Alice addressed her.

"What's a quick and easy comfort food?" Alice asked.

"Do what?" Carol asked quickly. Alice laughed to herself in response.

"You're pregnant," Alice said. "And—you're supposed to have all sorts of cravings and food is supposed to be amazing, right? Help me out, I've never done this before. Quick and easy comfort food. What are you craving?"

Carol shrugged.

"I mean—I don't have any cravings right now," Carol said. "But I had a few weird ones when I was pregnant before."

"I'm looking for comfort food," Alice said. "Something—not too heavy. Not too light. Just _comfortable_. Quick and easy. For me? That would be like potato soup. But I don't know—I'm not sure I'm normal. And I'd like something a little more substantial than that."

Carol laughed to herself.

"I don't know what you had in mind," Carol said. "But the other day Daryl made us grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup and—I have to admit I've already asked for it two other times."

"Hits the spot?" Alice asked.

"It hits some spot," Carol responded.

"You're a genius," Alice said, seemingly very pleased with Carol's choice of comfort food. "That's why I can't ever let them move you. It's also one of the reasons why I told Milton I'm training you. I can't bestow like a—like an official medical degree on you? But—I can come pretty damn close. A little along."

Carol's stomach sort of oddly flipped at the statement. Alice _was_ training her, and Carol had suspected that might be what she was doing, but Alice hadn't come out and said it. Alice had Carol doing the mechanical aspects of her job under supervision. Taking vitals was something that was easy to pick up on, but Alice had also volunteered herself as a human pin cushion for Carol to practice drawing blood on and, just that morning, Alice had let Carol try her acquired skills out on one of the women in her care.

Now Carol wondered where the training would stop—and she was a little proud to think that maybe, if they really did make it out of all this, she might come through with a skill that she could really do something with in the world.

"Milton liked the idea?" Carol asked.

Alice smiled.

"Liked it? He _loved_ it. He was as enthusiastic about it as—as Milton gets about anything," Alice said. "Medical personnel is always a necessity, and it's especially true if you happen to get one that's sympathetic to the whole wilds are human philosophy. Not to mention—it looks good for the project that well..."

Alice hesitated and her words dropped off. Carol knew from experience that meant that there was something she wanted to say, but she was afraid of offending Carol with the words.

"Go ahead," Carol urged. "I don't care. You can speak freely around me. You know that."

Alice hummed.

"It looks good for the project if we can show that Wilds can assimilate to the point that they acquire useful skills," Alice said. "But that sounds like some shit out of a pamphlet."

"And some shit I've heard sounds like it comes out of a horror novel," Carol said. "I'll take the pamphlet." Carol only realized where they were going when Alice steered her in the direction of Milton's house. Carol's stomach tightened a little. "What are we doing?" Carol asked quickly. "Is Andrea OK?"

"She's OK," Alice said. "She's fine. Gotta pay a house call."

Carol followed Alice up the steps to the house and waited while Alice knocked, announced her presence, and then produced the keys from her pocket that she used to unlock the house. By now, Carol had learned there was a master key for all the houses. From what she could tell, all the "businesses" within Woodbury had their own key. And Milton's house had its very own special set of keys.

Alice let them inside and Carol closed the door behind her. Alice wasn't normally in the practice of locking the doors behind her when they entered a house, but she had been locking them since the "incident". She was no different here and she quickly locked the door from the inside before she called out to Andrea to come out of wherever she was "hiding".

Carol didn't know the house well enough to know from which room Andrea appeared. Andrea stopped and stared at Carol standing in her living room and Alice laughed low in her throat.

"Go ahead," she said. "Hug it out. Do whatever you gotta do. I need to make a quick phone call and then? Everybody get comfortable."

Alice disappeared around the corner into the kitchen to use the phone and Carol closed the distance between herself and Andrea to wrap her arms around the woman. Andrea returned the hug with more strength behind her hold than Carol anticipated and Carol didn't try to pull away from her until Andrea seemed satisfied enough to release her.

"It's been a couple of days," Carol teased Andrea when they pulled apart. It had been a couple of weeks, in all honesty, since Carol had seen her. She'd managed to miss some of Andrea's appointments with Alice while being occupied with other tasks she was assigned.

"You're OK?" Andrea asked, her voice almost sounding urgent. "Everything's OK?"

Carol offered her a smile.

"I'm fine," Carol assured her. "I'm fine and—Daryl's great. He's working on expanding the clinic right now and—I'm working with Alice and...the babies are fine."

Andrea raised an eyebrow at Carol.

"You mean all of them?" Andrea asked. "Everywhere? In Woodbury? How many are there now? Enough?"

Carol quickly shook her head at Andrea.

"I wasn't talking about all of Woodbury," Carol said. "Though—there's about fifteen confirmed pregnancies right now? I think. We lost two a couple of days ago. Nothing happened just—one of those things. When Alice is confirming them at the moment that it'll show up on a blood test, well, there's been a few ups and downs."

"But Carol is a bit of a celebrity right now," Alice said, reappearing around the corner.

"Wild A?" Andrea asked.

Carol shook her head.

"That's all you," Carol said. "But— _twins_."

Andrea's eyes went wide.

"Twiins? You're having twins? You and Daryl?" Andrea asked. Carol nodded. Andrea bounced slightly on the balls of her feet, her excitement for Carol coming through. "Oh! Right now?"

Carol laughed to herself.

"I hope not!" Carol said. "I'm not ready yet—and I don't think they are either. But yeah. Right now." In response she got another hug from Andrea that very nearly robbed her of her breath and came accompanied with some declarations of "congratulations" in her ear. "How are you? How are you feeling?"

Andrea just nodded at Carol. It wasn't that sincere, but Carol accepted it for what it was worth. Then Andrea turned her focus to Alice.

"What's wrong?" Andrea asked Alice. "I wasn't expecting you."

"We're here for lunch," Alice said. "I just put in the order so they'll be here soon."

"Lunch?" Andrea asked.

Alice nodded her head.

"I was looking at your food journals and..." Alice started.

"Food journals?" Andrea asked.

"You'd be surprised what I know about you," Alice said. "Milton has tabs going on everything about you. _Everything_. And you don't eat your breakfast unless it's a piece of toast or a croissant. Lunch? You return most of what they bring. Dinner is the only thing that you actually seem to consume in a day, and that's touch and go. And I thought to myself that breakfast can be explained. Morning sickness has been kicking your ass and we all know that. And you don't normally get around to breakfast until Michonne's left for work, and Milton's gone to work, and then lunch? You eat that alone. Dinner? Depends on the day, but usually at least Michonne's back. So—we're here for lunch. Just to test a theory."

"I'm not starving myself," Andrea said quickly and quite defensively. There was enough anger behind her words that Carol found herself stepping out of the way a bit.

"And did I say you were?" Alice asked, her tone sharp enough to get through to Andrea. Andrea visibly relaxed a little. "I never said you were. But I have a theory that you're not eating as much because—there's nobody here. And sometimes? When people eat alone all the time? Meals become a chore more than a pleasure. It's something you have to do, not something you want to do. It becomes instinct to eat to survive. And what we need to _survive_ doesn't always match up to what we need to _thrive_." Alice softened her tone a little then. The change was something that Carol was accustomed to hearing from her when she was trying to get through to someone who still wasn't quite comfortable in Woodbury. It happened often with the patients they went to visit. "You're _losing_ weight, Andrea, and that's the exact opposite of what needs to be happening right now. So I have a theory. And that theory is that—if Carol eats lunch with you, which both of you need to do, then you're going to do what I ask you to do and you're going to eat _everything_ I give you. Or, at least, you're going to make a valiant effort."

Andrea shrugged her shoulders.

"I'll eat whatever you tell me to eat," Andrea said. "If I can."

Alice nodded her head and offered Andrea a soft smile.

"And if it works," Alice said. "Then I'll have no choice—and I hope you understand that—than to tell Milton that Wild A was under constant supervision and I think that medically supervised meals are just—they're just the best thing we can do to make sure that everything's going well."

Carol realized what Alice was doing, and she couldn't help but smile to herself. Andrea still looked a little suspicious, though, of what was going on. Perhaps she wasn't quite as accustomed to how Alice operated as Carol was.

"So you're coming here every day?" Andrea asked.

Alice shook her head.

"I've always got a lot to do," Alice said. "But my assistant? I think she's trained enough to—supervise lunch and record the information that I need. To pass to Milton, of course."

Andrea looked at Carol and then back at Alice. There was something breaking through in her expression, even if she hadn't reached a sincere smile just yet.

"Carol's going to eat lunch here?" Andrea asked. "Every day?"

"I think we should give today a try," Alice said. "And then, if it goes well, I'll let Milton know my recommendations. Should we give it a try?"

Andrea didn't smile at all then. Instead, her features drew up like she might actually burst into tears at the thought. She nodded her head quickly, though, both to Carol and to Alice. Carol nodded her agreement to Alice as well.

"Excellent," Alice said. "Then Carol? I'll get you set up and let you know what I want from you and as soon as they bring the food, I'll let you get to work. I'll pick you up in an hour."


	77. Chapter 77

**AN: Hi everyone, here's another chapter.**

 **Please pardon my absence. I've been surrounded by people and without internet.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"I'm really not starving myself," Andrea muttered around the food she was chewing.

Judging by the way that she was eating the food, Carol wasn't sure if she was telling the truth. She ate like she hadn't eaten in days. If her appetite was always so strong, she certainly wasn't starving herself. But her appetite, too, could easily be the result of just such a denied starvation.

"So then this is just friendly lunch," Carol said. "Just—you and me, once a day. And all Milton needs to know is that Alice recommends it."

"Twins?" Andrea asked, letting a tick and a half of silence fall between what Carol had said and when she asked her question to change the direction of their conversation.

Carol smiled to herself and nodded.

"Yeah," she said. "That's what Alice tells me. That's what the ultrasound showed. Twins. Two little jellybeans right now. That's what Alice calls them."

"You say that like you don't believe it," Andrea pointed out. Her tone raised slightly.

Carol shrugged her shoulders.

"I believe it," she said. "But I don't think it's sunk in for me. Not yet. I mean...I hardly even _feel_ pregnant. It's not like it was with Sophia. When I was pregnant with Sophia? I was _miserable_. You'd think it would be worse with twins. I'm tired, but I'm doing a lot so there's a reason to be tired. I'm sick in the middle of the night, but it doesn't last long and it's not—it's not the sickest I've ever been."

Andrea laughed.

"This baby is trying to kill me," Andrea said. "It's exactly the _opposite_ for me. I didn't know I was pregnant with Andrew until I was showing. I mean— _really_ showing. Like I couldn't pretend that it wasn't there anymore. Then I realized there were little things here and there, but I just hadn't paid attention to them."

"You didn't have time to pay attention to them," Carol said. Andrea nodded her head. Pregnancy out there would be, Carol imagined, very different than pregnancy before the turn, and certainly different than what they were experiencing in Woodbury. "Now you have all the time in the world to notice everything. You don't even have the distractions that I have."

Andrea hummed.

"Still, I don't believe he's real sometimes. Sometimes? I convince myself that it's all an elaborate trick. The sonogram. The morning sickness. It's all some kind of psychological game with smoke and mirrors. I think I'm pregnant because they've convinced me to think I'm pregnant."

"I've seen your tests," Carol said. "And your sonograms. And I can see you're starting to show a little. It's not a trick, Andrea."

"I need him to move," Andrea said. "I keep focusing on it. I just—sit and wait for it. But he isn't moving yet."

"He's moving," Carol said. "We all saw it. You just can't feel it yet."

"You know Milton is determined that there has to be another," Andrea said. "There has to be two. And—sometimes it's like he doesn't understand that I can't start on the second one until this one is born. It would be easier if I had gotten lucky like you and just had the two to start with."

Carol swallowed. As far as she knew, she was the only one that was carrying twins. It was making her something of a celebrity in Woodbury. She hadn't thought that it might actually be the kind of thing that could make some people at least a little jealous. It was hard for her to imagine it might because she was staying awake some nights worrying about the difficulties that might come, later in the pregnancy, as a result of trying to carry two instead of one.

"I had a little help," Carol said. Andrea looked at her and Carol nodded her head gently. "Daryl and I were...we were having some problems. Some complication. Alice helped."

"You mean drugs?" Andrea asked, leaning closer to Carol. Carol nodded her head in response.

"But you can't say anything," Carol said. "Not to anyone. Not until Alice goes public with it."

Andrea laughed to herself.

"Who the hell am I going to tell?" Andrea asked. "Milton hardly talks to me. Michonne's so exhausted that she just wants to sleep when she gets home and she leaves for work in the morning while I'm still dying on the bathroom floor. I can tell the baby but—if he exists? He already knows now." She shrugged her shoulders. "I wish she'd offered it to me. Get the two done at once. That's the way to go."

Carol reached her hand across the table and caught Andrea's. She squeezed it and Andrea turned her hand to return the squeeze.

"You will get through this," Carol said. "Even if it looks to you like you won't? You'll get through this. We all will."

Even if Carol had her doubts at times, she realized this wasn't the time or the place to air them. Not right now. Maybe, in the future, she could come bringing her problems, but first she needed to get Andrea back on solid ground. Andrea might help her eventually, but Carol had to be the one who was a leaning post for now.

Andrea shook her head, some tears starting to show around the lower lids of her eyes.

"Wild A committed suicide," Andrea said. "Whatever they did to her? It was bad enough that she committed suicide."

"You're not Wild A," Carol offered. "You're Andrea. Former Civil Rights lawyer. Former big sister and daughter. Partner to Michonne. Friend to anyone who ever needed one in Region Thirty Three. Former and _current_ mother. You are _not_ Wild A."

"But I'm supposed to be," Andrea said. "And I just keep thinking...what else are they going to do to me? What else are they going to do to make everything repeat itself? To make me kill myself?"

Carol sat back in her chair and considered it a moment. It wasn't the first time that she'd thought about it, of course. She'd overheard more than she was probably supposed to overhear about the project. About Wild A. About Wave Thirty Three and the government. In reality, she was privy to a number of conversations that she was sure that, from the other room in the clinic, she wasn't supposed to overhear.

And she was just holding onto all of it, slowly processing it, and trying to figure it all out for herself. She was trying to figure out where it all came in handy for her.

Maybe some of it was important now.

"Maybe the goal isn't to make everything repeat itself," Carol said. "Maybe the goal is the exact opposite of that. Maybe the whole idea of Woodbury—the whole idea of Wave Thirty Three—is that things _don't_ repeat. Maybe it's that—they were wrong before." Carol sat forward. Andrea was looking at her, food finished, with a furrowed brow. "The government? The Governor? The man who is running the country and, maybe, the whole world? Maybe he doesn't want things to repeat themselves. Maybe he wants proof that they won't. The people out there? The non-wilds? They're not reproducing, Andrea. They're scared of everything. They're terrified of their own shadows. They're not reproducing because—because they're scared. They're raising what they dare to raise of the wild-born children that get adopted out. But—I don't know how many of those actually find homes. We're population control. If we make it out of here? We're making it out of here with _babies_. _Children_. We come out of here the majority. We come out _literally_ rebuilding the world. The future. Maybe the goal isn't to make everything repeat itself."

"Or maybe it's that we have babies and they take them for all the assholes that won't have them," Andrea said.

Carol sighed and sat back, crossing her arms across her chest.

"I've thought of that," Carol said. "Believe me. I've thought of that."

"And you don't think so?" Andrea asked.

"I don't know," Carol admitted. "But I don't _feel_ like that's what's happening here. I just—don't. I don't have any reason not to, but I don't."

"I hope you're right," Andrea said.

Carol nodded her head in agreement. She hoped she was right too. Her confidence in everything ebbed and flowed like the tide. One day she was sure they were going to get through this and they'd end up on top. Other days she expected them to show up and tell them all that they were being executed in mass.

"They called us Wilds because we existed out there," Carol said. "We existed in a world that they couldn't imagine surviving in. We survived when so many people didn't. They called us Wilds because we did whatever we had to do to stay alive and to keep our people alive. Our children alive. Our friends and family alive. _Out there._ They called us Wilds because we didn't trust a government that was dropping bombs on Atlanta and probably every other major city in the country. We didn't trust a government that probably killed as many people as it saved. But..."

"But?" Andrea pressed when Carol broke off to think about her own words.

Carol shrugged and shook her head.

"But the government is different now," Carol said. "From what I've heard? The government's been through a lot of changes since then."

"We don't know they're good changes," Andrea said.

"And we don't know they're bad," Carol said quickly. "We just know things are different. So maybe that's what the Governor wants. Maybe he _wants_ different. Maybe we're here to show him that we're different. That Wilds are different. From anything that he's ever thought before."

"We know that," Andrea said. "We know we're here to debunk the idea of Wild and non-Wild."

"So that's what we do," Carol said. "You're not Wild A. And that's the whole point. You're not Wild A, so you've got to be the opposite of Wild A. You lived through that out there. You can live through this in here. You just need to focus your mind. They won't give you anything to focus on, so you create it yourself."

Andrea laughed to herself.

"That's a lot easier said than done when you're trying to fill silence day in and day out without nothing to distract you," Andrea said. "They even limit how many books I can read."

"Ask for a notebook," Carol said. "A notebook and a pen. And you focus all your attention on him. On your baby. Obsessively. Write down how much you eat. Request scales. Request a tape measure. Every day you record how much you weigh. How much he's grown. How many ounces. How many inches. Down to tenths. You record every feeling. Every possible kick or hiccup."

"Drive myself crazy?" Andrea asked.

"Driving yourself crazy with something you love is better than going crazy with something else," Carol said.

"Have you been visited?" Andrea asked. "By Melodye and Maggie? Have they tortured you with the questions about losing Sophia? About how you'd react to losing—to losing your babies?"

Carol shook her head.

"No," she said. "But they will. My time is coming. Eventually they'll talk to all of us. They're just talking to you more. Whatever it is? You've got to answer more questions than we do. You've got to be watched. You've got to be isolated and denied any escape that you don't find yourself, here, in this home. That's where the obsessive journaling can help."

"It makes you feel like the shoe is always about to drop," Andrea said, almost seeming to ignore Carol for a moment. "It makes you feel like something terrible is coming. Something terrible is just around the corner. You can't see it, but you know it's there."

"Something's hiding in the dark," Carol offered.

Andrea nodded.

"Sophia was afraid of the dark," Carol said. "Out there? She was terrified of the dark. The monsters were in the dark. And I couldn't even tell her that they weren't because they _were_. I'd sleep with her in sheds and old houses and we could _hear_ the monsters out there. Waiting to get in."

Andrea swallowed and nodded her head.

"I could see those," Andrea said. "I knew I could handle those."

"And you can handle these," Carol said. "Whenever Sophia got scared? Really scared? I made her tell me about things that she liked. Things she enjoyed. I made her think about something else. That's what you have to do. You have to think about something you _love_. And any time they make you think that—he doesn't exist or that something horrible is happening? You focus on what you know. You think about—how many inches have you put on. How many pounds have you put on—because that's how much he's growing. It's how much bigger he's getting and how much _stronger_. It's how much closer you are to having him in your arms and being in control. You don't think about the rest." She shook her head at Andrea. "There's always time to think about the rest later. When we know more. When he's here."

Andrea offered Carol a half-smile and nodded her head. Carol thought she sat up a little straighter in her chair, though.

"I can do that," Andrea said.

"You'll do that?" Carol asked.

Andrea nodded her head.

"If they'll give me all that? I'll do it," Andrea said.

Carol smiled at her.

"I'll put the order in when I get back to Alice's office. Doctor's orders. We need you to keep track of things," Carol said. She winked at Andrea. "Strictly for medical reasons."

Andrea laughed to herself and shook her head.

"How are you remaining so positive through all of this?" Andrea asked.

Carol thought about it a moment. She could say that she was a positive person. She could say that she was just skilled in seeing the silver lining or that she was simply able to believe that everything would always turn out right. She could say that she had confidence in everything she said and that she believed in the good that was in everyone and every situation.

Each of those statements would invalidate Andrea's experiences to some degree. They would make her feel—and seem—somehow lesser than Carol.

And they would all be untrue.

Carol sighed.

"I have an incredible support system," Carol said. "And—I've got enough that I can pass it on at least a little."

Andrea raised her eyebrows at Carol.

"I'll owe you one," she said.

Carol smiled.

"It'll all come out in the wash," Carol assured her.


	78. Chapter 78

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"If she ain't knocked up then I don't know what the hell to do," Merle declared.

Alice guessed it was best that he was behind Sadie so that the woman was entirely unaware of his frustrations over her less-than-fruitful uterus. Without responding to him, Alice finished up and packed up the blood sample that she'd carry back to the clinic with her. It was only when that was out of the way that she took the time to address any of their concerns about their situation.

The guard who had escorted Alice to their home had removed the heavy metal collars that they were both wearing. The collars, Alice learned, were a method of controlling prisoners in the maximum security prisons. According to Sadie and Merle both, who had no reason to lie about the things that they'd seen and experienced, many of the rooms in the prisons had hooks that were spaced out and lined the walls. The guards would push prisoners against the walls, looping their collars over those hooks, and would hold them in place like that as a form of punishment or control. If a prisoner was the correct height for the hook, it could be unpleasant. However, in the case of someone—for instance, Sadie, who would have been considered "short" in almost any group—who wasn't the right height, the hooks could be dangerous.

But nobody cared what happened to prisoners in maximum security, and the fewer they had to deal with, the better off society was as a whole. At least, that's the way that Alice had heard it.

The marks on the backs of their necks, though, were consistent with the story told by both Merle and Sadie. They were clearly the kinds of marks that could have been caused by a hook making more contact with skin than with collar. They were jagged scars and they'd be with the both of them for the rest of their lives. Alice hadn't been able to remove the collars from any of the other maximum security prisoners, since none seemed entirely keen on cooperating with her or anyone else, but she assumed that each of them would carry the same kinds of scars.

It was, perhaps, a true mark of their particular level of wildness.

There were bruises, too, where the heavy collars had uncomfortably pressed here or there due to regular movements and actions. Those bruises, however, would heal with time.

Those weren't the bruises that concerned Alice at the moment.

Even though Alice was done with drawing Sadie's blood, the woman remained seated at the table across from Alice. She looked, at best, bored with the situation. There wasn't much there, though, to keep her from _being_ bored. Being such _dangerous_ individuals meant that she and Merle weren't allowed the luxuries of other citizens, and they had very little to keep them entertained other than the sexual activity that, according to Merle, was even starting to grow tedious.

Alice reached across the table and caught Sadie's chin, gently turning her face to examine her. She tipped the woman's face back in her direction to hold eye contact with her once more.

"Did he hit you?" Alice asked.

Sadie stared at her so Alice repeated her question. This time she was sure not to slow down her words—as she knew she had a habit of doing—because, contrary to what sometimes seemed reasonable, Sadie could understand her better if she simply spoke to her normally.

"He?" Sadie asked.

"Merle," Alice said. "Did he hit you?"

Sadie turned her head and looked at Merle who walked around her to make himself more present in the conversation.

"Hold up!" Merle said. "I ain't hit her!"

"Did he hit you?" Alice repeated, getting Sadie's attention. "You can be honest with me. There's nothing he can do to you. I promise you that. You'll leave with me right now if you want to. I can take you back to your old house."

Sadie shook her head adamantly.

"No," Sadie said. "No. He didn't hit me. Merle didn't hit me."

"Then where the hell did these bruises come from?" Alice asked, this time directing her question to both of them. "And don't give me some bullshit about falling or boxes or whatever. I want the truth."

"You act like we told you anything but the damn truth since we got here," Merle grumbled. He leaned on the table next to Sadie and Alice watched them. Sadie didn't seem afraid of him. She _did_ seem unsure of something, but it didn't appear to be Merle that she was unsure of. She seemed perfectly comfortable with him.

"What happened, then?" Alice pressed.

"Damn guard," Merle said quickly. "Damn guard hit her, OK? Weren't a damn thing I could do. He was all over her ass before I even knowed what he was gonna do and I figured he'd shoot both or one of us if I done anything." Merle looked almost pained at what he clearly considered a confession. "I shoulda done something, but I didn't."

Alice looked to Sadie. Her brow was furrowed, so it was clear that she hadn't gotten everything that Merle had said, even if she'd understood the gist of it.

"Is it true?" Alice asked. "A guard hit you?"

Sadie nodded her head.

"Yeah," she offered. "A guard hit me."

"Why?" Alice asked, directing her question at neither of them in particular. "When?"

"Couple days ago," Merle offered. "That's the when, at least. The fuckin' _why_ we don't know. Come in here on one of them things they call a routine check. Walk through the whole damn house. Tear the whole thing apart. But when he come in the door he smacked the livin' shit outta her. I was in the bedroom. Didn't hear nothin' go on other than him sayin' he was comin' in the door. He said he told her to do something. Said she didn't do it. Or she did something else. I don't fuckin' know. He coulda told her all kinda shit. Hell—she can't hear a damn thing 'less she's lookin' right at'cha."

"They aren't supposed to do that," Alice said. "They aren't supposed to touch a citizen here unless they're actually threatened."

Merle laughed. He seemed to find a great deal of humor in what Alice had said.

"You ask him," Merle said. "You just ask his ass. I bet'cha he tells you he was damn near fearin' for his life. Scared to death that Sadie here—prob'ly standin' with her hands out—was gonna kick his ass. These guards? I ain't never seen one of 'em shit themselves, but to hear 'em talk? They always afraid 'cause we're always threatening them."

Alice sucked in a breath to calm her own nerves and let it out slowly.

"I know," Alice said. "I know. That's the worst part of this whole project. I _know_. But it's not going to get any better until it does."

"And when the hell is that, Doc?" Merle asked. "Not like we pushin' or nothing, but...exactly when the hell does it get better?"

Alice shrugged her shoulders.

"We'll know when we know," Alice said.

The headache that had been plaguing her, on and off, for about three days was returning. There was a thumping feeling at her temples that she knew was coming from stress. She didn't have to sit and wonder what was causing the stress, either.

"Well that ain't exactly no real answer," Merle said.

"Well it's all the answer I've got right now," Alice snapped back. She hadn't meant to be as harsh as she was, but Merle actually backed up a step to indicate that she'd surprised him.

"Take it easy, Doc," Merle said. "Just—you said we was gettin' our asses outta here. Said we was gonna be real damn people in this place. All we had to do was fuck to expand the damn population. Now I've fucked her every damn way but standin' on her head. And she's damn near worn my dick out. But if we don't got no kid? What the hell else we gotta do? There some alternative damn route? We gotta fuck in public to show we're trying?"

"You want to get out of here," Alice said.

"Yes!" Sadie said quickly and enthusiastically. Evidently she'd missed some of their earlier exchange, but she'd followed Alice on the one part that was closest to aligning with her deepest wants and desires.

"I want you to get out of here," Alice said.

"When?" Sadie asked. "When do we leave?"

Merle bumped her shoulder and Sadie turned her attention to him.

"When you get knocked up," Merle said.

"I'm trying!" Sadie declared, frustration showing on her features. "It's not a fucking choice, Merle!"

Alice waved her hand to get the attention of both of them again. Then she held her hands up to them to request calm from the both of them.

"Listen—there will be a baby," Alice said. "If there isn't right now? There _will_ be a baby. Merle—there's nothing wrong with you. Sadie? There's nothing wrong with you. You're both capable of having children."

"I've had five!" Sadie said with some exasperation.

"And there ain't no damn tellin' how many I've had that I don't even know about," Merle said.

Alice nodded her head slowly.

"I understand," Alice said. "And I understand it's frustrating. But you're doing all you can do. And babies aren't instant. They aren't a guaranteed thing. It's not like making a cake. Just because you've got all the ingredients and the oven is warmed up, it doesn't mean you're going to pull out a kid when the timer goes off. Sometimes? It takes a while. But—I think if it doesn't happen? I can stack the odds in your favor."

"Whatever," Sadie said. "Whatever you can do. Whatever we can do."

"But if it don't work?" Merle asked. "We just stay our asses here 'cause we ain't damn coordinated enough to make a fuckin' kid?"

Alice shook her head.

"I'm getting you out of here, OK?" Alice said. "I'm getting you out of here. As soon as possible. I'll go—I'll go today. I'll talk to—everyone who might be able to help. I don't know yet if that's Milton or it's...I don't know who I have to talk to, but I'll figure it out and I'll talk to them. I'll tell them that Sadie's—that she's stressed. That there's a lot to deal with here. You're stressed. It's lessening your chances of a successful pregnancy."

"Is that true?" Sadie asked.

Alice laughed to herself.

"I've seen as many things that suggested it could be true as things that suggested it could be false," Alice said. "But they don't have to know that. For now? It's true for you two. I'll tell them that if your stress level is reduced—which can be easily done by moving you to a more pleasant and _safe_ location in Woodbury, you'll thrive. And not only will you two thrive, but you'll be much more likely to produce a child. And that's what they want to hear."

"And they gonna go for it?" Merle asked.

"They should," Alice said. "I'm the only doctor that'll touch any of you with a ten foot pole. Especially you two—since you're both documented killers in their eyes. I may not be the best doctor around, but I'm the best they've got."

Alice watched Merle and Sadie exchange looks with each other. She didn't want to try to interpret what they were thinking, but she at least had to note that neither of them looked entirely displeased. They were both slightly smiling when they looked back at her.

"What do we do?" Sadie asked.

"You keep doing what you're doing," Alice said. "And you do whatever you have to do to keep them from even having a fake reason to say you're causing trouble. When I move you out of here? You'll be moving into the main part of Woodbury. In a few days? They're talking about trying to give citizens some free hours during the day. Time they'll be able to be out and about on their own. Socialization is a big thing that we're working up to. I don't know if they'll open that to you two right away or not. If they do? I want you both on your absolute _best_ behavior. You never knew how to not get along with someone in your life. You understand?"

They both nodded at her.

"We get it," Merle said. "Don't pick no fights with people. Keep a damn smile on your face and keep your head down. Same damn thing we been trying."

Alice nodded her agreement.

"I'll figure out how to get you out of here," Alice said. "And I'll figure out how to increase your chances of a baby. Right now? They should go for it because you two are the only two cooperative citizens that we have from the max security prisons. The rest is up to you. You decide, just like everybody else, if you end up getting thrown out of here or if you get to actually stay and survive." Alice stood up from her seat at the table and gathered up her collection bag. Sadie caught her by the arm, rising with her, and pointed to the bag.

"How long?" Sadie asked. "Until we know?"

"About if you're pregnant?" Alice asked.

Sadie nodded her head.

"I'll let you know in a few hours," Alice said. "The rest? I'll do my best."

Sadie offered Alice a thanks before Merle caught her arm and nodded his head at her.

"Thanks, Doc," Merle said, sincerely and calmly. "For—gettin' the choke collars off. For—everything."

Alice nodded at him, too, and offered the best smile she could, despite her throbbing headache.

"It's what I do," Alice said. "And Merle?" She raised her eyebrows at him and he hummed at her in question. "While I'm gone? If she's not opposed to it? You two try fucking while she's on her head—every little bit of effort counts."


	79. Chapter 79

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Carol and Daryl treated the announcement like it was a long awaited movie, and Carol was pretty sure they weren't the only ones. In anticipation of the event, Carol had put in an order and requested that a variety of snacks be delivered to their tiny home, and she arranged all of them on the coffee table in their little living room while Daryl finished his shower.

Everyone had been let out of work early and the late meal of the day had been served early to rush everyone home in preparation for the televised announcement.

"Daryl, come on!" Carol called. "You're going to miss it."

"She's gonna talk for an hour or so, I bet," Daryl said. "If I missed a minute of it, I guess you could fill me in."

He came anyway, though, and settled down onto the couch. Carol accepted the pillow he brought her and she arranged it so that she could lie across the couch with her head in his lap, using him as a human recliner. In his normal manner, Daryl rested his palm on her stomach like he still hoped that the babies—of which Carol felt there was relatively little proof—would do some kind of trick for him. Carol didn't reprimand him, though. She'd rather him feel involved, as touching her seemed to make him feel, instead of distanced from their shared experience.

"You turn the volume up?" Daryl asked, watching the same repetitive screen on the television as they normally did.

"Should be loud enough," Carol said. "It's hard to judge when nobody's talking."

"You sure it's on the right channel?" Daryl asked.

"There isn't another channel," Carol said with a laugh. "Just be patient. It'll start in a minute."

And Carol was right. After a few more moments of watching their glorified weather channel, the screen cut to a close up of Samirah's face. It appeared that she was sitting in some kind of office, but whoever was working the camera was focusing on her and not her surroundings.

"Citizens of Woodbury. You all know me. I'm Samirah, though many of you call me Sam or Sammi. Please take a moment to adjust your volume," Samirah said through the screen. Their volume didn't need to be adjusted, so Carol and Daryl simply sat and waited for her to continue. Daryl leaned up and got the bowl of popcorn off the table, somewhat smashing Carol in the process. He put it so that Carol could reach it if she wanted some and munched on the kernels while Samirah kept repeating her greeting so that everyone could be sure that they were ready to listen. Finally she seemed to determine that enough time had passed for everyone to be settled, and she continued. "Citizens of Woodbury, as you know, Wave Thirty Three is shaping up nicely as a project. Most citizens who wish for employment have found jobs throughout Woodbury. We're currently in the process of expanding our clinic to provide more room for patients and a more comfortable environment for those patients. In the future? We hope to expand the clinic further to create a state of the art birthing center for our mothers-to-be to welcome our newest citizens. We're planning the building of a school at the moment and, with any luck, we'll be expanding to bring in more citizens. Throughout our community, we currently have sixty-five couples who are cohabitating. Of those sixty-five couples, we have twenty-seven who currently say that they are happy enough with their partners that they would consider a life together outside of the project. The area of reproduction has been an important issue for Woodbury. We've had some ups and downs in that area—all of which we've been assured are natural and expected, though no less lamented—and currently we have eleven confirmed and thriving pregnancies in the community."

"We're in all them categories," Daryl pointed out. "I think we're winning this."

"Shhhh..." Carol hissed at him.

He laughed at her, and in response to her shushing, rested a popcorn kernel on her lips so it would fall into her mouth when she moved them again.

"Our longest successful pregnancy, at this moment, is currently in the second trimester," Samirah said. "We also have, here in Woodbury, the first confirmed pregnancy of multiples since the turn—and that's inside and outside this community."

Daryl patted Carol's stomach.

"That's us," Daryl said.

"That's popcorn," Carol pointed out around the popcorn that she'd now begun to munch on. "Babies are farther down." Daryl moved his hand following her instruction and patted again. "Don't pat too hard," Carol warned. "I don't want to have to get up to pee."

"Every day we're moving closer to accomplishing the things that we need to accomplish to prove that Woodbury is a community for life," Samirah said. "It's a community for peace and togetherness. A community of people who have a strong interest in the future of our nation and in the advancement of our nation. Every day we're moving closer to proving that those imprisoned as Wilds can be rehabilitated and can be successfully reintroduced into society. And we absolutely, _absolutely_ could not do this without the cooperation of the citizens of Woodbury and your efforts."

"Because we the damn Wilds," Daryl offered with a snicker. He choked himself on a piece of popcorn and rearranged Carol again as he reached for his drink.

"Our development here hasn't been without some incidences," Samirah said. "And we know and understand that nothing comes without some setbacks. However, we want to avoid as many problems as we can. We ask you, as citizens, to keep that in mind as we move forward in our project. Tomorrow we will begin offering more freedom to you. In the morning, when officers usually come around to release those of you who eat breakfast outside of your homes, all homes will be unlocked. The doors to your homes will remain unlocked throughout the day tomorrow. All citizens will be allowed to come and go as they please in Woodbury without escort or permits. There are some exceptions, however, and you should listen closely to these. The information will also be posted on your regular broadcastings. The fenced in area of Woodbury is off limits to all unauthorized citizens. You should remain clear of the area. Be advised that the fences are electrically charged and the voltage is high enough that you could be severely injured should you touch them. Guards will be posted there and they will escort you away from the area should you choose to ignore these warnings. You will also be issued a warning. The clinic will be open tomorrow, and walk-ins are welcome, but you should anticipate a wait if you don't have an appointment. If you need an appointment, you can call at any time and you'll be given the earliest one available."

"We're going to be swamped tomorrow," Carol said.

"You?" Daryl said. "Hell, we're gonna be tryin' to keep people outta our work area."

"The warehouse is off limits to citizens due to capacity regulations," Samirah continued, clearly reading from a piece of paper, the top of which was barely visible in the camera shot. "Any orders that you might want to put in should be handled as they normally would. In the future we hope to have a window service available, but tomorrow the supply warehouse will operate as usual. We're anticipating larger than usual meal crowds tomorrow, so those that work in food preparation will be released from their homes early and should report to work no later than four in the morning to begin preparations for breakfast services. Meals will continue to be served in shifts depending on the amount of people present. All citizens must return to their own homes immediately following dinner and houses will be briefly inspected and re-locked before dark. During the day, citizens are allowed to visit each other and enter into other homes. However, there's a four citizen limit for each house at any given time. Anything beyond that, at this time, will be considered by the officers as unauthorized gathering and will be broken up. Citizens involved will be issued a warning. If everything goes smoothly, the free hours will remain in effect and, at a later time, will be extended."

A voice came from off camera and, for a moment, Samirah turned her face entirely away from the camera. She stood up, leaving the table where she was seated, and disappeared for a moment off to the side. Whoever was holding the camera didn't follow her, though, and they said nothing about the disturbance.

"This is the worst movie I've ever seen," Daryl said.

"Stop it," Carol said. "I'm just glad we're getting some of that freedom they promised us."

"Freedom to go to work and eat," Daryl said. "You wouldn't think we'da had to wait so long for that. Still, I wonder why the hell they're gonna be walking around breaking up groups of four or more."

"Not breaking up groups, Daryl," Carol said. "Not allowing more than four at a time _in a house_. I think you'd be alright in the street, but I don't think they want us really congregating together in private too much. You never know what we could be planning, after all."

Carol teased him by waving her fingers at him in the same way she might if she were telling him a scary story. He smirked at her.

"We could be up to all kinds of shit," Daryl said. "Except they'll shoot us all and keep on goin' with them that's left."

Samirah returned with more paper in hand and sat down at the table again. Carol redirected her attention back to the television and when she moved around to get comfortable, Daryl readjusted the pillow that had shifted from behind her head during her wallowing around.

"Sorry for the interruption," Samirah said. "As I was saying, groups of four are the largest allowed groups inside a private residence at any one time. Please be aware that officers will be patrolling all day tomorrow—and every day to follow. You're not required to have a permit to come and go normally, but you do need to be aware of your behavior. Violence of any kind will not be accepted. That includes violence against officers and against your fellow citizens. The gate areas are off-limits and we'd like to take the opportunity to remind citizens of the tragic events that occurred recently. Please do not try to leave Woodbury. You're citizens here, but you're still prisoners to the government. We encourage everyone to enjoy their freedoms, but don't abuse them. Instead of inciting violence, as some may feel inclined to do, get to know your neighbors. Congratulate an expecting couple. Take the opportunity to see everything that Woodbury has to offer and to consider things that you might want to be a part of to make it better. We're accepting your suggestions. But, above all, respect yourselves and respect others. Let's keep Woodbury a peaceful community and let's remain focused on the good things we have in store. Let's remain focused on making Wave Thirty Three a success that moves us all toward a brighter future."

Samirah stopped again, clearly interrupted once more, and looked off camera. This time she didn't leave the table and Carol could hear the somewhat muffled sound of a man's voice. Samirah nodded her head at him and looked at the camera again.

"And please note, as well, that the area surrounding the Mamet house are off limits. It's the large government property near the gates. There will be a guard stationed there. No citizens are allowed access to the property without an issued permit," Samirah said. "Violation of that rule will result in the violating citizen being issued a warning."

"There's a surprise," Daryl remarked blankly.

On camera, Samirah smiled as genuinely as she could, but Carol could tell that the woman didn't really care for the job of making announcements.

"I hope that everyone enjoys their freedom tomorrow," Samirah said. "And I hope it continues for many days to come. I'm here to help you in any way that I can. I will be in Woodbury tomorrow and I hope to have the chance to interact with many of you as you go about your day. Just remember—be safe. Woodbury is a peaceful community with a bright future. We want you all to be here to enjoy that future. This announcement will play again throughout the evening."

To close out her announcement, Samirah smiled and waved at the camera. She held the stance a moment and then the broadcast cut out. Rather than starting over right away, the screen returned to their normally anticipated screen and Carol noticed that it had already been updated to reflect rules that they all needed to be aware of.

Carol stayed where she was and read through the rules as they scrolled, but there was nothing there that was shocking or surprising in any way. Then she shifted around and sat up so that she could share the couch, normally, with Daryl.

"I'ma go to work with my freedom," Daryl said with a laugh. "What'cha gonna do with yours?"

"Go to work," Carol said. "Carry my permit to the Mamet household and eat lunch with Andrea. Meet you for dinner? That is—if you're willing to eat with me once you have your freedom."

Daryl cocked an eyebrow at her.

"Why the hell wouldn't I be?" He asked.

Carol smirked at him and shrugged her shoulders.

"You're supposed to be getting to know your neighbors," Carol said. "Maybe—you want to get to know some of your female neighbors. Shop around a little?"

Daryl frowned at her.

"You're an assole," he said.

Carol laughed and Daryl cracked a smile before he swallowed it down again.

"I'm just saying the door is—well, it's _literally_ open for you tomorrow," Carol said.

"I ain't even entertaining you right now," Daryl said. "Get up."

To illustrate his words, Daryl got to his feet and began gathering together all their snacks that hadn't been eaten.

"Where are you going with my cheese curls?" Carol asked. "I haven't even opened them!"

Daryl laughed to himself.

"Calm down, you gonna get 'em. Get up. Come on," Daryl said.

"Where are we going?" Carol asked.

"That was the worst damn movie I ever seen," Daryl said. "And we got all these snacks. So we're goin' to the bedroom. Game night. Gonna play board games."

"Which one?" Carol asked, tucking her pillow under her arm and helping to gather up the items that Daryl couldn't carry.

"Does it matter?" He asked as she followed him toward their bedroom.

"I don't guess so," Carol said. "But not Monopoly. We have to sleep tonight."

"Not Monopoly," Daryl said. "That's your rule. Wanna know my rule?"

"What's your rule, Daryl?" Carol asked, already preparing herself for what his tone of voice told her was going to be a ridiculous rule.

"Whatever the hell we're playing?" Daryl responded. "We're doing it naked. Buck ass naked."

Carol laughed to herself.

"And this is why I'm ninety percent sure we won't typically have guests in our home," Carol said.

"Don't matter," Daryl said. "I never liked people in my house in the first damn place."


	80. Chapter 80

**AN: Here we go, another chapter.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Carol's first day of "freedom" went much like she thought it would.

With everyone feeling like they had a little more time on their side, it seemed like everyone was coming to breakfast in the mess halls instead of, perhaps, gobbling down whatever they could in their homes before work. Carol and Daryl went to breakfast together and got in line behind everyone else who was waiting their turn. It wasn't long, though, before a guard came out and escorted them to the front of the line. Since there was rarely much of a line, Carol was pleased to discover what she'd never known before—expectant mothers got the VIP treatment at all the meal lines if they wanted it. And Daryl, at her request, was allowed to join her so that she didn't have to dine alone during the somewhat rushed meal before they both had to make it to work.

As Carol had predicted, they were so busy in the clinic that she could barely get the information entered into the computer for one patient before Alice was handing her another set of forms to enter and file for a different patient who had some minor request, complaint, or curiosity. Being busy had its perks, at least, in that it was lunch time before Carol hardly even had the time to realize that the hours were ticking by.

As she normally did, Carol made her way to the Mamet house. Security was amped up for the day and she had to show her permit three times, to three different officers, before she was finally escorted up to the house. Andrea wrapped her in a warm hug the moment that she came through the door and Carol called in their lunch to be delivered. While they ate, they exchanged the same idle chitchat as they normally did, and Carol was careful to let Andrea prattle on about her measurements and what she was thinking about doing with the nursery without reminding her that she'd heard the same things yesterday and were likely to hear them again tomorrow. Those were the only activities and interests that Andrea was allowed to have, and losing herself in them at least made her feel like she was doing _something_ with her time, even if it was only focusing on her job of becoming a mother again.

After lunch, as she always did, Carol reminded Andrea that she'd be back, thanked the guard for letting her out of the house and for keeping everything so _safe_ , and then she returned, unescorted, to the clinic where she sat with Daryl outside during the last few minutes of his lunch break.

Several more hours of work in the clinic, and finally catching up on paperwork enough to be able to assist Alice a little and get some more on-the-job training, and the workday was done. Carol left the clinic as soon as she was "dismissed" by Alice and Daryl met her outside to ask about their dinner. Together they went to the mess hall, seeming to have never stopped overflowing from people since that morning, and they were once again escorted to the front of the line so that they could find a table sooner and enjoy their meal.

It was a perfectly _normal_ day made all the more normal by the fact that Carol wasn't forced to carry a permit with her at all times and she hadn't had to ask a single officer to take her anywhere when she'd run an errand or two for Alice.

Freedom might not be exciting, but it was certainly an improvement.

While they ate, Carol listened to Daryl telling her about the work that they were doing—work that she heard all day long since it was being done to the building in which she worked. She listened as he told her that he already had another job lined up with Grady. As soon as the clinic was done, they were going to begin working on a school. And after the school, they were hoping to have the permits that they would need to truly expand the clinic by starting on another building entirely that would become something like a hospital—a hospital that would ideally bring in many more doctors and set Woodbury up for being a freely functioning and fully accepted community.

But, for the moment, these were just the hopes and dreams of those who were working behind the scenes on Wave Thirty Three. Carol knew, from all her conversations with Alice, that Woodbury would remain a prison-community until the project was done and the government had decided that its citizens were truly ready to be fully incorporated back into society. If that happened, or rather when it happened, since they were choosing to be optimistic, Woodbury would become nothing more than just a walled community that was fully functioning and well-protected from the Dead that still roamed outside—though in smaller numbers than they'd once boasted. The citizens of Woodbury, at that time, would have the choice to either remain there in the place that they had helped to build, or to move on. They wouldn't be restricted any longer. They'd be fully accepted members of society—they would be entirely _human_.

As they were finishing their meal, standing up to abandon the table so that someone else could sit and gobble down their food before it got cold and unappetizing, Alice approached the table in the company of Samirah. They'd met before, several times, but Samirah met so many people that every time she spoke it was like she was meeting Carol for the first time. This time was no different. She offered a hand out to Carol and introduced herself. Carol took her hand and reintroduced herself before she introduced Daryl and let him shake Samirah's hand.

"Do you have a minute?" Samirah asked. "To just talk? Nothing's wrong." She added the last two words as something of a quick afterthought. It was clear that she didn't want them getting the wrong idea about what was apparently supposed to be just a friendly chat.

"Crowded in here," Daryl said.

"We'll go outside," Samirah said. "Take a walk. We could go back to your house or just—walk around outside."

"It's nice out," Daryl mused.

Carol bit her lip. There was a certain element of being social that was probably now to be expected in Woodbury and it was clear that being social wasn't Daryl's forte. He wasn't as socially awkward as he could be, but he certainly wasn't making any grand effort to extend the amount of time that he spent in the presence of others. Still, he knew who Samirah was and he was trying.

"Let's go outside," Carol said, catching Daryl's arm and pulling it against her in a hug. "Daryl can smoke and we can get a little exercise. Digest dinner a little?"

Samirah smiled and nodded her head.

"Sounds wonderful," she agreed. "Do you mind if Alice joins us?"

Carol glanced at Alice in an attempt to get a read on the woman. She'd spent enough time around Alice now that she could tell when the woman was lying and she could tell when she was uncomfortable. Alice looked perfectly calm and not at all bothered by Samirah's suggestion that they go for a walk. Carol could only surmise that they were simply going to go outside and get reacquainted—though to Samirah it would possibly seem like the first time that they'd met.

Outside, Carol could breathe again. The mess hall was sometimes stifling. The smell of the food and so many bodies could be a little reminiscent of prison. It was always nice to know that she could emerge from the building, enjoy the fresh air of the walk to her home, and then she could enjoy the quiet solitude of time spent with Daryl.

They walked only far enough to escape those still in line and waiting to get inside before Samirah spoke.

"I haven't seen much of you," Samirah said, "since you got here. Things have been busier surrounding the project than I ever imagined."

Carol laughed to herself.

"I thought you didn't remember me," Carol said.

Samirah smiled.

"I remember you," she said. "I have a very good memory. I just assume that people usually don't remember me so it's easier to introduce myself than it is to just—let them stand there and wonder who I am. I haven't had a chance to really tell you, though, how happy I am that things worked out for you. I'm sure that losing a baby in your earlier days here was difficult, but you've adjusted very well to Woodbury. You're really a—a model citizen."

Carol swallowed. Sometimes she forgot that she was meant to be playing the role of a mother who had recently lost an anticipated pregnancy. She assumed, though, that nobody mentioned it because they didn't want to make her uncomfortable and, like Samirah, they probably assumed that her new impending arrivals would take some of the sting out of whatever she might be dealing with in private. She realized that it may be a bit difficult for the mothers there who were suffering from actual loss to see her, but there was no going back now. To tell everyone it had been fake would be to call Alice out and, possibly, to get the woman in a significant amount of trouble. Carol couldn't risk that. She wouldn't.

But she didn't like lying, either, so she went for something that she could be comfortable with. She went for something that was as middle-of-the-road as she felt she could get.

"Losing a child is never easy," Carol said. "It's one of the—hardest things that anyone can ever go through. I don't think it ever leaves you. I think—you just keep going, but it's always there."

"But you've kept going," Samirah said. "And now? You're expecting again and—we've been told it's multiples. Everyone knows it now."

"Twins," Carol said. She rubbed her stomach. Stripped naked, she thought she could tell that she was pregnant—at least a little. Daryl insisted that he could tell, but he'd insisted that since been barely carrying the babies for a week.

"I cannot begin to tell you how excited we were by the news, and the confirmation from Alice that it's true and the pregnancy is thriving," Samirah said. "Milton is thrilled. I'm thrilled. The most recent reports finally made it to the Governor a few days ago and—I believe it was really that information that pushed him to go ahead and pass the declaration of more freedoms for the community. He was so pleased to hear about your babies that he lifted the temporary ban he'd put on it after the incident involving those who tried to escape."

Carol's heart caught a little in her chest. She glanced at Daryl, but he looked unconcerned. He was walking along, head slightly down, smoking his cigarette. She might have even believed that he wasn't listening at all, but she knew him better than to think that he'd let a conversation about the babies take place without him even following along with what was being said.

"I appreciate everyone's support," Carol said. "But I guess I just don't understand what's so exciting about my babies. I mean—I know why Andrea's baby is so important. I understand that she's Milton's... _project_ , and therefore her baby is crucial to the whole thing. But why are my babies so important?"

Samirah shrugged her shoulders and made a face.

"I guess because—because you were pregnant and then you lost the baby, but you didn't let it stop you. It shows true dedication to the project to try again. It shows—you're really dedicated to Wave Thirty Three. It's just—I guess it's just..."

"Patriotic?" Carol asked, trying to swallow back the odd feeling of humor that she felt rising up in her to mix with the strange sensation of concern that was already pooling there.

Samirah laughed.

"Something like that," Samirah said. "And you're having twins. It's exciting. That's—it's simply that. It's exciting. For everyone."

"But why would that make the Governor lift the ban?" Carol asked. "Why would that make him give us the freedom that we'd already been promised if he wasn't going to give it to us anyway?"

"Because happy mommies make happy babies," Alice interjected quickly. "And we all know how much you love to get outside and...get a breath of fresh air. The sooner you can do that without permission, the better off you'll be. And we have to start somewhere to get full-time freedoms for everyone."

Carol looked at Alice and caught a quick wink from the woman. She couldn't be entirely sure if the wink was in regard to the statement or in regard to everything they were discussing—but she had a feeling that she'd eventually find out.

For the moment, Carol decided to accept the explanation and accept Samirah's congratulations. She thanked the woman as warmly as she could and threw in a little extra about how happy she'd been that day with the ability to come and go as she pleased without needing an escort or a permit for everything.

Samirah stopped walking suddenly and Carol realized they were nearly at the road that would take them to their house. Samirah reached out and caught Carol's hands like they were old friends. She squeezed Carol's hands and rubbed her thumbs across the tops of them.

"Listen, if there's anything you need? Anything you want? Don't hesitate to ask," Samirah said. "Even if it's just a special request. I can't promise you that we'll get you everything, but we'll try to see what we can make arrangements for. OK?"

Carol nodded her head. She glanced at Daryl. He'd stopped walking, but he looked no more interested in the conversation than he had when they'd left the mess hall.

"Actually," Carol said, "I can think of something I'd like."

Samirah smiled, apparently quite pleased at having a request so soon that she could work to fill specially for Carol.

"I'll at least try to get it," Samirah said.

"Rocking chairs," Carol said.

"We're already ordering one for the nursery," Samirah said. "They're standard in the options that you'll get."

Carol shook her head.

"Not for the nursery," Carol said. "For the porch. Right now, when we go back to our house, they're going to lock us inside again. But the evening? It's my favorite part of the day. And I'm hoping that our freedoms will be extended soon to allow us to spend that time outside as well. I'd love to have—something to make our porch nice. So it's a place we can really spend some time. Maybe even—socialize with people. A couple of rockers would be _perfect_."

Carol saw the slightest bit of interest cross Daryl's face before he wiped it away. Maybe he wouldn't be too against spending time with her rocking on their porch. Or, maybe, he thought it was the silliest idea that he'd ever heard. Without a bit more feedback from him, Carol couldn't truly be sure.

"Absolutely," Samirah said. "I'm sure that it can be arranged. Just—let me talk to a few people and I'm sure that we can do that."

"What about the time?" Carol asked.

"What?" Samirah asked.

Carol shook her head gently.

"The rockers won't do me any good if I'm locked inside in the evening and just looking at them from the window," Carol said. "What about the time? How long do you think it would be before it gets extended?"

"I don't know," Samirah said, shaking her head. "I've heard different things. A couple of weeks without incident to—a couple of months. Putting this curfew in place got delayed a few times, so it's really hard to say."

"Could you put in a request that it might be soon?" Carol asked. "It's so relaxing and—the babies are still tiny. I hardly even feel like I'm pregnant. But I know it won't be long before—I could use that relaxation at the end of the day."

Samirah nodded her head gently and glanced at Alice. Alice was nodding her head like she was suggesting to Samirah that she should be doing the same. In response, Samirah nodded with a little more enthusiasm.

"Absolutely," Samirah said. "I have a meeting with Alice now and then—a meeting about the psychological assessments that have already taken place...but...tomorrow? First thing, I'll see if I can't have a talk with the Governor. And I'll see what I can do about getting you rockers and—time to use them."

"And a swing too," Daryl said quickly, his first input. Samirah looked at him and he gestured his head toward Carol. "Heard—or read it somewhere—that the swingin' is good for settling them down when they get all stirred up in there. And there's two of them to get stirred up and...well, not a whole damn lotta room for them to do what they gonna do."

Carol bit the inside of her cheek so that she could look serious, instead of laughing like she wanted to, when she nodded at Samirah and backed up Daryl's quickly created claim.

"I'll see what I can do," Samirah said. "Until then? Take care of yourself and take care of the babies. And if you need anything?"

"I'll know who to ask," Carol assured her. As a gesture, Carol squeezed the woman's hands in her own to reiterate the newfound familiarity between the two of them. And then, when Alice collected Samirah to take her toward the clinic for the meeting, Carol caught Daryl's arm again to walk with him toward their house.

"Settling them down, Daryl?" Carol asked when they were out of earshot.

"You don't know it ain't true," Daryl said with a laugh. "And rocking is just fine, but I'm not opposed to swinging either. Not as long as we're getting some kinda special treatment for all the hard work you're doing."


	81. Chapter 81

**AN: Here we are, another chapter here.**

 **I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"Can I get some communication?" Alice asked. "Carol—you're the interpreter."

"How can I interpret, Alice, if she's not saying anything?" Carol asked. "There's nothing to interpret if she doesn't try to communicate. I'm sorry," Carol added, speaking to Sadie that time. "You're right here and...we're talking about you like you're not."

Sadie shook her head at Carol.

"I don't care," she said. "Is she done?"

"I'm done," Alice said.

"She's done," Carol clarified for Sadie since Alice was behind the woman.

Sadie nodded her head and quickly readjusted her clothing to cover herself once more. She turned around and crossed her arms across her chest.

"How long?" Sadie asked.

"Do we keep the treatments up?" Alice asked. She didn't wait for Sadie to let her know if she'd guessed her question correctly before she answered it. "One shot a day until you're ready to ovulate again. Then we'll do the insemination."

"No," Sadie said. "How long before—before I'm not a prisoner?"

"You're all still prisoners," Alice said. She glanced at Carol and shrugged her shoulders. "If we're being honest? Everyone is still a prisoner. You don't cleared of that until the project is over and the government declares that everyone here is free to go. But—tonight you'll sleep in your new home."

Sadie smiled to herself, clearly pleased with this piece of information.

"Tonight?" She asked.

Alice nodded her head.

"I presented the stress of the maximum security zone as being a probable cause in your infertility," Alice said. "It looks good for you that you've done this so many times before. It's clear you _can_ have a child. Merle's swimmers check out. So the only reason you're not pregnant is either a simple case of timing or—something else that's getting in the way. I'm suggesting the something else is an incredibly high stress level. A little roughing up by the guards may or may not have played a role too."

"Merle is coming too?" Sadie asked. "With me?"

"Unless you don't want him to come with you," Alice said. "We could arrange for separate housing, perhaps, as long as you're willing to—well, to procreate together."

Sadie shook her head quickly.

"No," she said. "I want him to come. But he's coming today? With me?"

"The guards will take you back to max security for the time being," Alice said. "Merle should be there and waiting for you. They're securing a house for you now and...when it's ready? I'll come with them to get you."

Sadie unfolded her arms and pointed a finger at Carol.

"You did this?" Sadie asked.

Carol raised her eyebrows at the woman.

"I wasn't ever a maximum security prisoner," Carol said.

Sadie rolled her eyes at Carol and shook her head. It wasn't an uncommon reaction from the woman when she was misunderstood.

"The shots?" Sadie asked.

Carol nodded her head.

"Yeah," she said. "I don't know if it was timing or...stress...or what, but Daryl and I weren't getting anywhere. At least, not as quickly as they wanted us to."

"But it worked?" Sadie asked.

Carol laughed to herself and nodded her head.

"I'm pregnant," Carol said. "So either it worked or...maybe it took the stress away for me enough for nature to take its course. Maybe it was just the right time. But the result is the same."

Alice tapped Sadie on the shoulder to draw her attention.

"I'm not a fertility expert. I'm not an OBGYN. I'm just trying to figure all of this out as I go along," Alice said. "They asked for specialists, but everyone else said hell no to taking on this project, so you're stuck with me. I'd like to be able to swear that I can help any woman who wants to get pregnant, but I can't say my personal research is there yet. Carol was my first guinea pig. You're my second."

Sadie sucked in a breath, held it, and let out slowly. She nodded her head.

"OK," she said. "OK. Will I have twins too?"

"I have no fucking idea whatsoever," Alice said with a laugh. "None. You could have one or two or like...six, for all I know. Whatever happens? I'm going to be just as surprised as you are."

Sadie nodded her head again and mumbled some acceptance of what Alice was saying. Alice affectionately rested a hand on the woman's shoulder before she squeezed her arm.

"Are you ready to go back?" Alice asked.

Sadie shrugged her shoulders and nodded. Ready or not, sooner or later she'd have to leave with the guards.

Alice called the guard in and Carol watched him. She heard Alice's repeated reminders to the man to be gentle and considerate with Sadie. She watched, too, as the guard basically ignored Alice's requests. He manhandled the woman in a way that was entirely unnecessary. Now that Carol had a chance to get to know Sadie a little better, she realized just _how_ unnecessary all of the excess force really was. Given her stature, a man the size of the guard could have simply put Sadie over his shoulder if he wanted to relocate her and she wasn't going along willingly.

When she was bound, finally spared the indignity of the collar she'd been forced to wear before and the blindfold that they'd somehow believed would keep her calm when it only served to disorient and frighten her, Sadie went willingly enough with the guard and left Carol alone with Alice.

The day before, the clinic had been bustling while people enjoyed the novelty of coming and going as they pleased. Today, the novelty had worn off some. They had appointments, but they weren't seeing nearly as many walk-ins as before. They actually had time to kill.

Alice patted the exam table.

"Saddle up," Alice said.

Carol raised her eyebrows at the woman.

"Something wrong?" Carol asked.

"No," Alice said. "But that doesn't mean I can't feel out the babies a little and listen to a couple of heartbeats to pass the time. Besides—you know you want to hear them too. And it lets me practice. I'm in pretty desperate need of all the practice that I can get."

Carol accepted Alice's explanation and got comfortable on the table. She lie back and let Alice do her poking and prodding—something she really was doing for the sheer ability to practice at finding exactly what she was looking for without making any facial expressions that might concern any would-be mothers. The prodding wasn't unusual, but as of yet, Alice hadn't been able to locate the twins with her fingers.

"Can you find anything?" Carol asked.

"Eh, not yet," Alice said. "I think it's too early for me to find much of anything. But we can listen. Practice at that is good for me too. If it takes me too long to find the heartbeat, I can certainly hear the mamas' heartbeats getting faster."

Carol laughed to herself.

"Except mine?" Carol asked.

"I haven't tried with the Doppler on you, yet," Alice said. "But it should be fine. You've accepted that we're stumbling through this together," She fumbled around finding the machine for listening to the heartbeats, and Carol stared at the ceiling tiles, counting them for herself like she'd done every other time she'd submitted herself to Alice's will.

"Alice—why are my babies so important?" Carol asked. "Or so impressive?"

"You mean to me?" Alice asked.

"I mean to the government," Carol said. "Why does Samirah care about it?"

"Sami cares about everything that goes on in this project," Alice said. "She's never liked the way the prison system has been run. I mean the whole idea was rehabilitation and release, essentially. We got stuck at...well...I don't know if we ever really reached rehabilitation."

"So you're telling me there's no other reason other than the fact that she likes that it advances the project?" Carol asked.

"As far as I'm aware, that's pretty much it, if not entirely," Alice said. "I think it's too early to use the Doppler. I can't find the heartbeats with this thing." Carol's stomach turned and she pushed herself up on her elbow. Alice was already shaking her head at her. "It's early," Alice said. "It was a longshot anyway to think I'd find them right now. I was just playing around. Please don't look at me like that."

Carol didn't realize she was looking at Alice in any particular manner, but she could feel her own heart pounding. Focusing on her feelings, she realized it worried her way more than she had even realized it might.

"You gotta find them now," Carol said. "I can't breathe." She gasped in air to illustrate her point.

"I didn't want to do another scan so soon," Alice said.

Carol sat up.

"So you can't feel anything and there's no heartbeat and...I'm supposed to just go to _lunch_?" Carol asked.

Alice frowned at her.

"It's just too early," she insisted again. "Another week? Two? It'll almost definitely work."

"Alice!" Carol insisted.

"You're serious?" Alice asked. "You're really worried?"

"Alice!" Carol repeated. Whatever concern she felt was growing exponentially with the time that was lapsing. Alice sighed.

"Fine," Alice said. "But take off your pants. We're taking no chances on getting an accurate read."

"Fine with me," Carol said, dropping off the table to take off her pants while Alice washed her hands and prepared things.

"I wasn't going to do this, you know," Alice said.

"I know," Carol said.

"You're doing great," Alice said. "I don't need to check anything. I was just screwing around."

"I know that too," Carol said. "But I'm going to pass out or throw up if you don't do _something_. I just haven't exactly settled on which one yet."

Alice laughed to herself.

"Well, if you're going to throw up, just don't do it on me, preferably," Alice said.

Carol waited anxiously while Alice got everything ready. She waved Alice through all her usual introductory and seemingly mandatory doctor language and she held her breath until there was finally the sound of a heartbeat. She let her breath out then and sunk into the table some.

"All's well," Alice said. Even without looking at her, Carol could hear the smile in her voice. "Just like I knew it would be."

"That's just one," Carol said.

Alice chuckled. A moment later, either the same sound repeated itself a little louder or a new one entered the scene altogether.

"And there's the other," Alice said. "Everyone's safe and sound. You're the only one in your weird little trio that's having a rough time of it."

"No more experimenting on me," Carol said. "Not until you're sure that you can avoid scaring me half to death."

"I certainly don't want to be the one that's stressing you out," Alice said. "But as long as I'm here? Look—see? There's one and...there's the other. Everyone's accounted for. Everything looks just like it's supposed to. Can you take a couple of deep breaths for me now? Just to let me know everything's still working for you like it should?"

"I'm sorry," Carol said. "I really am. But—it's just that this pregnancy? Alice—I have absolutely nothing to tell me I'm pregnant. I don't feel like I did before. Before? I was dragging myself through the days with Sophia. I was sick all the time. I couldn't stand to smell meat. Now? I'm not really that tired. I don't feel sick. I have cravings, but...that could just be because I can finally eat things I want instead of whatever they're serving."

"And you should rejoice," Alice said. "So you're lucky. You're getting an easy pregnancy. Because that's what it is. It's an easy pregnancy. They're in there and they're doing great. Just relax and enjoy that. You have no idea when that luck might turn around and you're in here complaining about a thousand and one symptoms. You've got two healthy babies growing in there and we all couldn't be more thrilled about it."

Free to go, as it were, Carol went about getting herself back into her pants. Her heart was slowing down. She could feel herself relaxing under the knowledge that there was nothing to worry about.

But, honestly, she was always at least a little bit worried.

"Tell me the truth," Carol said. "Why are my babies...my twins...so fascinating to everyone? I don't want any of your bullshit answers, Alice. I just want to know the truth. If there's something I need to prepare for? At least give me the chance to prepare for it."

Carol watched Alice as she cleaned up and put everything back in order the way that she liked it. After lunch, they had another "hopeful" mother-to-be coming in and, if everything checked out, Alice might very well be putting the equipment to use again.

"I promise you that there's nothing you need to be prepared for," Alice said. "Not as far as I know. The twins are exciting because—we weren't even sure that twins were a thing anymore. Yours are the first ones reported since the turn. Anywhere. To any mother."

"Every baby born has just been one?" Carol asked. Alice looked at Carol and then turned her attention to fumbling with something else. "Alice—every baby born has just been one baby?"

"As far as we know," Alice said with a sigh. "Listen—the truth of the matter is that there haven't been a lot of babies born since the turn. Not to non-Wilds. Most of the babies that we've even seen have either come in with captures or they've come out of the prisons."

Carol's stomach tightened.

"Why?" She asked.

Alice shrugged her shoulders.

"Could be medical? Could be psychological. I don't know either way. It would require a study to be launched. More than likely it's just that people haven't been too willing to procreate since the turn," Alice said. "They'd rather just adopt the babies that come from elsewhere—but that leads to its own set of problems."

"Because they're Wilds?" Carol asked.

"I'm not even supposed to be talking about this with you," Alice said. "You know that."

"I know," Carol said. "But you're talking. And I'm not telling anyone that'll care. I won't tell Maggie when she finally comes to talk to me and Daryl. I won't even tell your partner. Nobody that matters has to know you told me anything. I'm already your partner in crime, and I've kept your secrets. I can play stupid, Alice, if that's what you need me to do. I just want to know..."

"Non-Wilds will adopt the Wild babies," Alice said. "But there's always an element of nature versus nurture. They're afraid that they won't be able to raise them to be non-Wild. And...if they aren't babies? They just go out to a family and back into the system again as soon as they can be traded in for an infant. They're always reported as non-desirable or trouble. They're reported as being Wild. And as of right now? Nobody's willing to admit that might just be them living up to the expectations that are set for them."

"Are you planning on taking our babies?" Carol asked. "Adopting them out?"

"No," Alice said. She shook her head definitively. Carol trusted the gesture. She wasn't lying. If that was the plan, Alice had no knowledge of it.

"But there's a push for us to have them," Carol said.

"Population," Alice said. "There's no future if there are no children. You know the drill— _we are the world, we are the children_. It's simple. That's all it is. Population. You're not living a life where you can say—I just won't have children. So you'll have children. The population will grow. That's why there's the push. Someone to inherit the Earth." Alice sighed. "You need to go to lunch. Andrea will be waiting for you. Melodye will be waiting for me. We've got a busy afternoon when you get back and I've got to get Merle and Sadie moved."

"There's no other reason, Alice?" Carol asked. "Just—repopulating the Earth one prison community at a time?" She knew that pushing Alice, once the woman had hit the invisible "off" switch that she seemed to have, would never work, but she still tried, regardless, to get everything out of her that she could when Alice had slipping into sharing.

"One _rehabilitated_ prison community at a time," Alice said. She started to walk toward the back exam room of the clinic—a room they were barely using at the moment because it backed up directly to the area where the expansion was being built—to fully and completely end their conversation. "Go to lunch. I'll see you in an hour."


	82. Chapter 82

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"Not a single damn problem, and I mean that," Alice said. "No problems with other people if you go to the mess hall. No problems with the guards that come to escort you. No problems with the people who deliver your shit to the door. No problems with any psychiatrists who may or may not come by to talk to you. No problems between the two of you that anybody...and I mean _anybody_ else can hear. Your only interest here is to be quiet and make babies. Do you understand?"

Merle didn't know how much Sadie was getting of the conversation with Alice. She'd started to zone out. She was watching the doctor's mouth move, but it wasn't with the intensity that she normally used to follow conversations. The woman's voice, however, was practically ringing in Merle's ears and she hadn't stopped reiterating the same points since she'd picked them up to escort them to the house that they were now calling home.

"Think we can kinda scrape together the point, Doc," Merle said. "Don't break nobody's jaw. Play nice. Fuck with our free time."

"And you're going to have a lot of free time," Alice said. "You've got to complete at least a week of house arrest before they're even going to let you out of here guarded to try at a job. That's at least a week of absolutely nothing that even seems remotely close to a problem."

Merle laughed to himself.

"You're a lil' high strung, ain't'cha? About this whole problem thing?" Merle asked.

"You're murderers," Alice said. "Both of you. You're both regarded as very dangerous and unpredictable. The guards around here? One of them assaulted a pregnant woman for drinking juice. _Drinking juice._ How much do you think it'll take for them to blow your brains out and call it self-defense?"

Merle nodded his head at the brunette.

"Point taken, Doc," Merle said. "No fuckin' with no damn body but each other."

"And that better be fucking in the literal terms," Alice said. "Because if you're fighting? They'll take that as a sign of your violent natures too. You need anything? You pick up the phone. They aren't running list pickups anymore, so that's how you'll call everything in. You need me? Just ask them to connect you to the clinic. Other than that? Lay low."

"You got it," Merle said. "How damn long 'fore we get the fuckin' kid requirement filled?"

The doctor sucked in a dramatic breath and let it out equally dramatically. She shrugged her shoulders in the same manner. If Merle had known her better, he might have told her that she needed to go home and have a drink—and then she might think about laying down and sleeping for a week or so. But he didn't know her that well, and he didn't know, really, if her life allowed for such things. From what Merle could tell, she was damn near running a one-man dog and pony show—and she was the both the damn dog and the pony.

"When she's getting ready to ovulate, I'll prepare her for it. The day after that, I'll call you both in and I'll do the job," Alice said. "When I tell you both to lay off the sleeping together? I mean it. No cheating and no..." She made a slightly obscene gesture to suggest that Merle shouldn't jerk off during their "probation period," and he snickered. "Sorry," Alice said quickly.

"Don't fuckin' apologize," Merle said. "Hell—first damn human being I've seen not in handcuffs in years. And then we get the kid thing covered?"

"It's the best chance we've got," Alice said, "but there still aren't guarantees. We'll give it time and she'll take a blood test. Fingers crossed." Alice licked her lips and her expression changed from exasperated and exhausted to simply curious. "Do you want the kid? I mean—if Sadie gets pregnant, do you want it?"

Merle's chest tightened. He looked at Sadie to see how much she might be following along. She'd given up on them entirely. She wasn't even trying to look interested any longer. Sitting at their brand new table, she had her head on her arm and Merle wasn't entirely certain that she was awake. She'd ask him, like she always did, to fill her in later.

And he'd tell her just exactly what he figured she had any reason to know.

"Yeah," Merle said. "I want the kid. She does too."

"You want it together?" Alice asked.

"You too damn nosy," Merle responded.

"That's what the hell they pay me the big bucks for," Alice said. "Listen, I don't give a damn if you want to keep it or—if you want to surrender it to the government for adoption. You do what you want. I'm just curious. Let's say you don't fuck up and end up back in max security or, worse, with a bullet in your brain. Are you two really planning on trying for something outside of this? Out of Woodbury?"

Merle glanced at Sadie again.

If anybody had told him before this whole thing started that he'd be standing a couple of feet away, one arm short, from some Deaf broad and he'd be considering the rest of his life with her, Merle would've called them a fucking liar. But the truth of the matter was, he was one arm short. Her ears didn't work for shit. They were both tagged hardened criminals— _cold-blooded_ _murderers and animals besides_. And both of them had been through hell on their knees, _a few times_. They were both to the point, honestly, where it was hard to decide if the bullet in the brain wasn't preferable over going back to maximum security.

And Merle wasn't positive he loved her, but he was sure that he felt about her like he hadn't very often felt about anyone in his life.

He wasn't sure he loved her, but he was almost positive he'd die to keep it from happening to her first. And, for Merle, that was the best that he had.

"We're keepin' the damn kid, Doc," Merle said.

Alice nodded her head.

"Fair enough," Alice said.

"What about my brother?" Merle asked. "What about Daryl?"

"He's certainly planning on keeping his," Alice said.

Merle shook his head.

"When do I see him?" Merle asked.

Alice shrugged her shoulders.

"If you look out your window? You've got a good chance of seeing him while he's out and about," Alice said. "Maybe—when you're eating a meal you might see him. Until you get out of house arrest, though, you're not going to see him very often. Consider it just another incentive not to get your head blown off."

Merle laughed to himself.

"How about his lil' woman? They happy?" Merle asked.

Alice nodded her head. A hint of a smile came across her lips.

"They're very happy," Alice said. "If we gave out awards for happiness? I would guess that the two of them would probably win first place. They're doing well. Loving the life they've got together right now. They're happy with their growing babies—both of which are healthy. And—they seem to genuinely care about each other. Anything else I can help you with?"

Merle swallowed and shook his head.

"Nah," Merle said. "That's about all the shit that really matters."

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"Don't!" Daryl said quickly and sharply. He moved his body in front of Carol. He was jumpy, but Carol could admit that she was jumpy too. She was a little ashamed of the fact that she was actually trembling.

"Daryl," Carol said, trying to remind him not to do anything—not to make any sudden moves.

"She's pregnant," Daryl said, his voice a little calmer. "She's just—just don't do anything. We don't wanna cause no trouble."

Maggie smiled at them. _Hurricane Maggie_ smiled at them. The two men who came in the house behind her—the ones that had advanced inside a little too quickly for his tastes and had startled Daryl—moved to the side and stood against the walls on either side of the door.

"We don't want any trouble either," Maggie said. "You can call me Maggie. And you are Daryl and Carol, correct?"

Daryl didn't move from between Carol and the new people in their home, but he visibly relaxed. Carol felt her own body relax in response to his.

"That's us," Daryl said. "But—we're not going to do anything and we'd appreciate if you didn't do nothin' either."

"Sit?" Maggie asked, gesturing toward the couch. "If you don't give the guards any reason, they're not going to do anything. I'm just here to speak to you. And they're just here to protect me in case I need it."

Carol reached a hand out and caught Daryl's hand. She tugged him with her to the couch. He walked the whole way there practically backward, his eyes never leaving the two men that were holding vigil over their encounter. As soon as they were seated, Daryl still watching the guards, Maggie chose a seat for herself and opened her notebook.

"We'll have a lot more conversations in the future," Maggie said. "But today? I just want to have a little introductory chat with you. Sort of you a getting to know you session." She looked directly at Daryl who was still concerned with the men present. "Do you think you can handle that? A normal conversation."

Carol didn't care for the woman's tone, and she didn't care for what she felt she was insinuating, but she also knew that they were in no position to point out things they did and didn't care for. Knowing what she knew about Hurricane Maggie, doing so might very well land them both in the clinic being treated for what the two men Daryl was watching might do to them.

"Whatever you want to talk about," Carol said. "We can talk about it." She put on the best smile she could. "We can talk about work or...our babies. We also just put together a really nice puzzle last night. We didn't know what it was, but it turned out to be a windmill. We could talk about that. Or the novel I finished a couple of days ago."

She thought she saw something flash in the woman's eyes, but there was nothing that Carol had said that could be used against her. She'd even minded her tone.

"Were you together before this? Or where you matched in Woodbury?" Maggie asked.

"We were in Region Thirty Three together," Carol said. "We knew each other, but you probably know that—relationships weren't allowed there."

"So you chose to be with each other?" Maggie asked.

"Familiarity always trumps the unknown," Carol said. "At least for me."

"Do you consider yourselves wild?" Maggie asked.

"No," Carol said.

Maggie looked to Daryl.

"Are you capable of speech?" She asked. "Or does it only happen in regard to the guards?"

Daryl's head snapped in her direction, but the squeeze that Carol gave his arm reminded him that they were on trial. They were always on trial.

"I can speak," Daryl said. "And I'm not wild. Never was. And I knew Carol in Region Thirty Three, but we weren't breaking the rules. Not there and not here. Model citizens...you can check it out."

"You've both undergone a fair amount of taming," Maggie said. "If you weren't wild, why would you suppose that so much taming would be necessary?"

Carol squeezed Daryl's arm again. A reminder not to answer too quickly or too hotly.

"I don't believe it was necessary," Daryl said. "But it's what they saw fit to do."

"Why did you ignore notices?" Maggie asked. "To turn yourselves in? To avoid imprisonment?"

"Never saw them," Carol lied. "I guess—there weren't any where I was living. I tried to stay away from everything. I was busy trying to keep my daughter alive."

"You?" Maggie asked, smirking a little as she jotted down notes about Carol's response in her notebook.

"Didn't see 'em," Daryl said. "Never saw the first one."

"That's interesting," Maggie said. "Since they were located in the areas where both of you were captured. Are you _sure_ you never saw them?"

"It could be pretty hard to focus on things like that," Daryl said. "What with spending so much time trying to survive. Trying to—take the world back from the Dead. Not hiding behind walls or anything. Guess we missed the signs."

Carol squeezed Daryl's arm again, sure he'd complain about it later, but if Maggie was any more bothered by his response than she'd been by anything else they'd said, she didn't let on.

"Your daughter was with you at capture," Maggie said. Carol's stomach twisted. She nodded her head. She didn't trust herself to speak for the moment. "What happened to her?"

"She was separated from me," Carol said. "I don't know what happened to her."

"You've dedicated yourself to Wave Thirty Three, correct?" Maggie said. "You said yourself that you were model citizens?"

"We work," Daryl said. "We got no problems here. Don't cause trouble. We live normal, calm lives. Got babies on the way. Two of 'em."

Maggie nodded her head.

"Do you think you're reformed enough—tame enough—to handle the responsibility of a child?" Maggie asked. "Of _two_ children, even?"

Carol nodded her head, but it was Daryl that chose to answer.

"Absolutely," he said, his voice not wavering in the least.


	83. Chapter 83

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **Very short time jump here. I've gone through and worked out the rest of the timeline for this story, but you should probably grab a drink and relax. We're in this for a while.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"This is fuckin' uncomfortable," Merle grumbled through the door. "Don't give a damn if...you're my brother's...whatever the hell you are."

Carol bit her lip not to laugh.

"I promise you that you can discuss the idea of being uncomfortable with Sadie after all this is done," Carol said. "Does that mean that you're not... _finished_?"

"Got my fuckin' dick in my hand and you wantin' to have a damn conversation!" Merle snarled. "The hell you think?"

Alice left the little room where she was prepping Sadie and quickly walked over to the door where Carol was standing. Sadie was ovulating. The time was now. It was a little sooner than Alice had expected, but she wasn't complaining.

Merle, however, was having a hard time of things.

Alice leaned against the door and tapped at it.

"What's the hold up in there, Merle?" Alice asked.

"Holy shit! Would you bitches go the fuck away! I'm in a damn bathroom not big as a fuckin' closet and you tellin' me to jack off in a damn cup that I can't even hold myself while you stand outside the door an' ask me a hundred fuckin' questions about jerkin' myself off!" Merle yelled.

Alice covered her mouth with her hand to stifle her laughter and Carol had to turn her back so she couldn't see the woman to keep things under control. To make matters worse, Alice knocked at the door again.

"You need a hand, Merle?" Alice asked. "I know you're one short."

"Fuckin' bitch!" Merle snarled.

Carol turned around and squeezed Alice's arm, still trying to control her laughter. She shook her head at Alice.

"Don't," she whispered, trying to keep her voice down. "Don't—don't rile him up. If he's like Daryl? His temper stays pretty even until it doesn't."

Alice nodded her head and spoke to the door again.

"All jokes aside, Merle, you've been in there a little while," Alice said. "Is there anything we can do? Anything I can get you?"

"A gun so I can blow my damn brains out an' be done with this shit," Merle said.

"Sadie?" Carol asked.

Alice shrugged her shoulders.

"Do you want Sadie in there, Merle?" Alice asked. "To—help move things along?"

There was absolute silence. It was so quiet that Carol was running inventory in her mind of the contents of the small bathroom to make sure that there was nothing in there that Merle could use to escape the situation in lieu of a gun.

"Are you alive, Merle?" Carol called finally.

"You didn't say Sadie was an option," Merle said.

"She wasn't," Alice said. "But we need this done today and, at the rate you're going? It's not gonna fucking happen if we don't get a move on. Do you want me to get her?"

Carol nodded her head at Alice and Alice disappeared back into the small room where she'd worked to get Sadie set up and ready for the procedure. She came back a moment later with Sadie holding her gown closed as well as she could and padding along with her.

"I'm sorry," Carol mouthed to Sadie, knowing there was no need to actually say the words.

Sadie shook her head at Carol and Carol knocked on the door once more.

"Merle...open up," Carol said. "Sadie's out here."

The door opened just a crack and Sadie pushed it partially open before she closed it behind her.

"You still out there listening?" Merle called.

"Can't hear a thing," Alice responded. "We're...doing something else."

"We're stepping away," Carol said. "Take your time."

"But like—not too much of it," Alice responded. "I was serious about getting this done."

"Fuckin' pressure," Merle commented again through the door.

Carol did pull Alice away from the bathroom door and the two of them stood and waited. It didn't take long before the sounds inside made it clear that there was more going on than had been happening before. Merle had been closed in the little bathroom for a while. This was the first indication that there might be anything coming from it.

"Performance anxiety," Alice mused quietly. "Who would've guessed it? I'd've figured he was the kind of man that would fuck in public."

"Daryl hated this part," Carol said. "It was like torture for him."

"I remember," Alice said. "But still, Merle and Daryl are two different animals." Her eyes went wide as soon as she said it and she shook her head at Carol. "I'm sorry," she said quickly. "I didn't mean it like that. I didn't mean _animals_ , animals."

Carol laughed to herself.

"I know what you meant," Carol said. "And they're different, for sure, but maybe they're not _that_ different. I think Merle might just have a bit more bravado than Daryl."

Both of them turned when the bathroom door opened. Sadie came out first, holding her gown shut again, and she walked directly toward them with the cup in hand. She put the cup in Alice's hand, nodded her head in Carol's direction, and headed back into the exam room that Alice had brought her out of before.

Merle came out a second later, still tugging at the elastic banded pants they'd issued him to wear for the time being.

"I'm guessing everything was a success?" Alice asked him.

"We gonna do this, Doc, or we ain't?" Merle asked. "We don't got all day to entertain you bein' an asshole."

Alice laughed to herself.

"Let's get it done," Alice said. "I'm feeling lucky. Let's make some more Dixons. Hey—at the rate we're going? You guys could actually be the largest family in the world soon. At least that we know of."

"Just make us a kid, Doc," Merle grumbled.

Carol followed behind Alice to help her if she needed it. She got Sadie set up again and neither of them said anything when Merle offered his hand to Sadie to hold.

They'd gone through things with Sadie carefully, twice, before she'd even stripped out of her clothes. Alice wanted her to know, completely, what to expect. She seemed unmoved during the whole process, though. She didn't speak to any of them and the only movement that Carol even saw from her was when she squeezed Merle's hand in response to his rubbing his thumb over her skin.

When she was done, Alice walked around to Sadie's side to speak to her.

"You need to stay like this for about a half an hour," Alice said. Sadie nodded her understanding.

"Will it work?" Sadie asked.

"You're the third insemination we've had here," Alice said. "The second done in the clinic. Both of the others took. I'd say your odds are good, but we don't know anything for sure. We have to see what nature has in mind."

Sadie nodded her understanding.

"Thank you," she offered, bringing her hand up to give Alice the sign of thanks. Alice smiled at her.

"Hey," she said. "You're welcome. Fingers and toes crossed. But listen...oh, I'm...sorry," Alice said quickly. "I keep putting my foot in my mouth today."

Sadie laughed and shook her head.

"It's OK," She said. "I'm listening."

"If this takes? I want absolutely no problems from you, OK? Nothing. I don't care—what they say or what's going on? No violence of any sort. Absolutely none. You got me?"

"We gonna be careful," Merle said.

"I need more than careful," Alice said. "I need promises. No violence. Especially from Sadie, but also from you, Merle. You don't want to die and you don't want to go back to max. And right now? You're more likely to die."

"Would prefer that shit over max," Merle said. "But we hear you. Both of us. Loud an' clear. We been real good. Got us some gold stars an' shit some damn where. We ain't done a single damn thing but fuck, eat, and do a shitload of crossword puzzles between us. Got me a vocabulary of at least a thousand new words now."

Alice laughed to herself.

"That's great," she said. "Make it a million. Stay here a half hour. I'll come back for you when it's time to call the guard."

Alice left the two of them to have a little private time together during the time that could, very well, be considered the conception of their child. She walked out the room and closed the door behind her with Carol walking in front of her.

"You seem tired, Al," Carol said.

Alice sighed and sat down in the office chair.

"I'm sorry," Alice said. "Did you want to sit here?"

Carol shook her head.

"I'm fine," Carol said. "Want to tell me why you're so tired?"

"Who the hell isn't tired?" Alice asked. "Who wouldn't be tired? You're tired, aren't you?"

"I am tired," Carol said. "But—I'm not that tired. And I have an excuse. My body's doing all kind of stuff that it's not used to doing. Right now? I don't even know...I could be making some fingers or something."

"Actually," Alice said with a laugh, "you're at...what...eleven weeks? You might be right. You could very well be making some fingers _and_ toes right now. You're sure you don't want to sit down? With all that going on?"

Carol laughed and shook her head.

"I want to know what's bothering you," Carol said.

"Nothing's bothering me," Alice said. "I just—hope it takes. Milton's really advocating for Merle and Sadie to have a chance. They're the only two max security prisoners that I believe are going to get through this. The others are so _far gone_ that—truthfully? They're talking about clearing them out in a couple of weeks if there's no change."

"Clearing them out?" Carol asked. "You mean...taking them back to the prisons?" Alice ran her tongue around inside her mouth. Carol could see the movement even if her mouth was closed. That was most certainly not what Alice meant. "Execution?" Carol asked.

"One bullet to the brain," Alice said, staring a little beyond Carol. "Kills them and stops reanimation in one move. The government decided it's the most _humane_ way." She shook her head. "What they mean is it's the cheapest and easiest for them. There's nothing humane about dying, tied up, on your knees somewhere. They shut down the max prisons about a month ago, Carol."

"How could they just shut them down?" Carol asked. Alice looked at her. She didn't have to say anything. She just looked at her and Carol heard her loud and clear. Carol's stomach turned a little. "All of them?" Carol asked, realizing that it was very possible that Merle and Sadie could have been among them. Alice nodded her head.

"If they clear out that corner? Take them all out in a bus and tear down the fences?" Alice said. "You can rest assured that Merle and Sadie are the last two remaining Wilds in captivity that were stamped too far gone for rehabilitation." She sucked her teeth. "That's why it's so important that Sadie not do anything. I mean—it's important that none of you act violently, especially while you're pregnant—but it's really important for her."

Carol shook her head.

"I don't understand," Carol said. "I mean—I get it. Don't act violently or they'll kill you for being a Wild but—why does it matter if we're pregnant or not."

"Kreegan," Alice said, leaning back as far as the office chair would allow her to do before it tipped.

"What?" Carol asked.

"The scientist," Alice said. "He's the one who—told the whole world what they should believe about Wilds? Studied them like lab rats? Kreegan said that his finding suggested that pregnancy was a way to tame wilds. He suggested that—it made women more docile. There's a catch, though. He also said that, sometimes, it didn't make them more docile. And if a woman wasn't docile while she was pregnant? She'd never be docile again."

Carol swallowed.

"So violence during pregnancy is like...proof," Carol said. Alice nodded her head.

"Proof that you're a Wild," Alice said. "And not just any Wild—a Wild that's beyond rehabilitation. A Wild that can never be tamed."

"So that means..." Carol said.

"One bullet to the brain," Alice said. "It's the most humane way, after all."

"But what about the babies?" Carol asked. "If they're killing pregnant mothers for some act of violence—then the population isn't going to grow."

"Do you really think they want babies that come from mothers that absolutely can't be tamed?" Alice asked.

"How long have you known about this?" Carol asked.

"Which part?" Alice asked. Carol just raised her eyebrows at her. "I just found out about the prisons. I reported that Sadie was about to ovulate again. That's all. That there was a chance there'd be a baby coming out of the household. Milton told me about the prisons. About the clearing out of them. About the plan to shut down that portion of Woodbury since nothing even remotely productive is happening there without Merle and Sadie in their reports. Kreegan? I've known enough about his studies. I've been a doctor through all of this. I know enough about Kreegan. Too much, maybe."

"You didn't tell me," Carol said.

"Yeah, well, I'm not supposed to tell you anything," Alice said. "And I'm telling you now. So you'll just have to take that as enough. It's all the hell I've got right now, Carol."

"You need to pass this around," Carol said. "The warnings about violence? Andrea needs to know."

"She knows now," Alice said. "I stopped in to give her a quick check after I talked to Milton. I told her—she's a docile little mouse and that's all the hell she better be. I'm telling the same to you. I'll tell the others, but I can't tell them why. If they don't take my word for it?"

"Is there anything else you're not telling me?" Carol said.

Alice laughed to herself.

"Nothing else that I know is important," Alice said. "The chain is long these days and it's pretty winding. I don't get information until it hits Milton or Sam. And they don't get information until those above them want them to have it."

"How worried should I be?" Carol asked.

"Not at all," Alice said. "Worrying makes you edgy. Being edgy makes you more given to extreme reactions. Extreme reactions have a chance of looking like violence. So don't worry about anything. Just—play nice. Enjoy your life. Enjoy Daryl. Enjoy everything that Woodbury has to offer you. The rules haven't changed. The game, really, hasn't changed. The idea was always to avoid violence. We just know, now, that they weren't playing around when they said that people who didn't follow the rules were going to be punished." She sucked in a breath and let it out with a sigh. "You think Merle and Sadie are going to behave? I like them. Both of them. I don't—Carol, I really don't want to see them die. I'm rooting for them as hard as I'm rooting for anyone else."

Carol swallowed and nodded her head. They'd behave. Alice wasn't supposed to tell Carol anything, and Carol wouldn't spread it around that she did, but that didn't mean she wasn't going to warn those she cared about—and Merle was practically family even if she could count on one hand the number of time she'd been in the room with him. She felt, though, that Merle and Sadie could both keep their mouths shut—just like Andrea and Michonne—because they knew and understood what the government was really capable of doing.

All of them, if they'd ever been tagged Wild, understood what the government was capable of doing.

"You call a guard," Carol said. "I'll go check on them and...let them know it's almost time to go."


	84. Chapter 84

**AN: Here we are, another chapter here.**

 **I've announced it on my other story, but I'll put it here too. I haven't abandoned anything. I've been so busy that I haven't had time to do things that I enjoy like write. I'm also in a situation where my internet is very hit or miss. I'm still here and I'll update whenever I possibly can. I appreciate you reading when I post and I really appreciate those of you who let me know that you're still interested and still reading. I'll try to get something more out to you as soon as possible.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Carol stood and held Daryl's hand in hers. His hand was sweating, despite the slight chill in the air, thanks to the fact that they'd been standing palm to palm for a decent amount of time. Carol might have pulled her hand away, wiped it on her pants, and stood with her hand hanging loose for a while, but she was enjoying the contact with Daryl and she found that she was slightly uneasy with the happenings around them. It wasn't really that she was _afraid_ , especially since she had nothing to fear, but there was a slight uneasiness that caused her stomach to churn a little.

The announcement had come over their televisions the night before that there were to be more Wilds joining Woodbury. The building projects were expanding their small community and there was room for more, so they were bringing new prisoners in to introduce them to the Woodbury lifestyle.

Because Carol knew what might happen to the prisoners if they were to remain in the prisons, she welcomed the news that they were bringing more in to the relative safety of the community. She was glad to know that there would be more people who would likely be saved from the "one bullet to the brain" humane manner of exterminating the Wilds that the government had devised—but there was still something there that was making her a little uneasy.

The newcomers would be temporarily separated from the established citizens of Woodbury. Their introduction time would give them the opportunity, just as it had for Carol and the others, to get used to being outside of the prisons and in more of a settled environment. It would give them time to weed out those who weren't capable of handling the transition without allowing them to cause havoc in Woodbury, as well.

And then, just the same as Carol and everyone else, those newcomers would slowly gain the freedoms that allowed them to go to and from their homes, meals, and work without escort and fanfare.

All of Woodbury had been asked to come out and gather so that they could witness the arrival of the new people and the sorting that would take place before they were "coupled" and sent to their new homes. All of those currently residing in Woodbury without mates were invited to come and "choose"—just the same as picking out a shirt—a mate for themselves. Anyone who wanted to "switch" their partners—like exchanging that very same shirt for one of a different size—was invited to come and make the exchange.

The whole town was supposed to be there, though, in one form or another to greet the new arrivals.

Even Andrea was being allowed to stand, guarded, on the porch of her home for the grand arrival.

But it was taking forever, it seemed, for the bus or buses to actually arrive.

And for all their waiting, Carol's hand was starting to sweat where Daryl was holding it so tightly in his own like he feared she might slip away or someone might somehow become confused and believe that one of them was hoping to change up their "mating" situation.

Carol knew that she would meet, and to some degree get to know, all the new people that entered into the community. Working closely with Alice meant that she frequently made rounds to other people's houses and she was at least a little acquainted with most of the people of Woodbury. New prisoners would mean that Alice would run an initial exam for each of them to decide where they were, health-wise, and how to get them in top shape as they shed off their less-than-gentle prison lifestyles.

From where Carol and Daryl stood, somewhat swallowed up in the crowd, they had a limited view of the area near the gates that had been cleared for the sorting of the new arrivals. Every guard they had was gathered there and it appeared they'd called in a few more for good measure. These Wilds weren't maximum security Wilds—all of those were gone beyond the few that were still alive in Woodbury—but the guards weren't taking any chances that those fresh out of prison might turn on the crowd.

Carol heard some of the squelching and static-filled noises coming from the handheld radios the guards carried before she even heard the sound of engines roaring as the buses approached. She raised up on her toes a little for a slightly better view over the shoulders of some of their "neighbors" when the guards moved to open the gates and clear the way for the vehicles to come inside.

Beside her, Daryl laughed to himself and squeezed her hand.

"You want me to put you on my shoulders?" He teased. "So's you can see better?"

"How many buses are there?" Carol asked.

"Looks like two," Daryl said. "Unless they got some outside that's gonna come in when these clear out. You know how many people is supposed to come in?"

"Alice said she heard twenty four," Carol said. She'd spent the morning in the clinic helping Alice get things ready for the rush that would hit them in the days to come. It had also been a chance for Carol to get something of the low-down on the information that the woman knew about what was taking place. "And then she heard fifty."

"Which is true?" Daryl asked.

"I don't know," Carol responded. "That's why I was asking about the buses."

"Looks like they from two different prisons," Daryl said. "Painted up different."

"They'd be coming from segregated prisons," Carol said. "Region Thirty Three..." Carol stopped herself. She knew, because Alice had told her, that Region Thirty Three was in the process of shutting down. Like the other prisons, funding was running low for it and it was simply going under. The government didn't feel the need to keep the larger facilities running. It appeared, instead, that they were simply "doing away" with any prisoners that they viewed to be beyond rehabilitation and they were shuffling the others off to smaller prisons that were cheaper to run—and those places were being run at the lowest cost that it was possible to achieve.

The government wasn't going to rehabilitate all the prisoners—not like they'd once boasted they'd do. Instead, they were keeping the best-behaved prisoners and waiting for Woodbury to prove, once and for all, if Kreegan's scientific findings were correct and all prisoners were simply a loss.

They were headed toward being the last Wilds standing. They would soon be the last people who recalled what it had been like to live out there—to the best of their abilities—with the Dead that still owned the country outside of the walls that were built to keep them out.

But Carol wasn't supposed to know all that she knew—some of which she'd just learned moments before stepping out to join the crowd-and she'd kept many of Alice's secrets. Even if she was going to tell Daryl what she knew, she was well aware that standing in the middle of such a large crowd wasn't the right place to do it.

"Region Thirty Three is one of the only coed prisons," Carol said, deciding that was the best way to save the comment that she'd left hanging.

When the bus doors opened, the guards blocked whatever view Carol and some of the others might have had of the newcomers. The prisoners were ushered off the bus and Carol's stomach turned slightly at the odd sense of déjà vu that came over her. That had been them not too long ago. She still remembered how it felt to come down the bus steps, carrying everything that she had to her name in a bag on her back, wondering what was about to happen to her. She imagined the experience might be at least a little less terrifying with all of them standing around in a group. At least they didn't imagine, right from the start, that they were being marched before a firing squad.

Carol watched as the buses emptied their contents out and the heavy metal doors closed behind the prisoners who stood, slightly disoriented, and shifted the weight of their bags. The number fifty seemed closer to correct than the number twenty four, but a head count would have been impossible from her position.

Samirah took her stand on the makeshift "stage" that they'd built for her to raise her high enough above the crowd so that everyone could see her. The speakers they'd brought in just for carrying her voice did what they were supposed to do.

Carol listened to the woman's welcoming speech and tried to recall what had been said to them when they were standing there wondering what was happening. She welcomed the new prisoners and explained to them that Woodbury was a violence-free community. She informed them that breaking the laws in place would result in expulsion from the community and their ability to remain there after any misdemeanor would be up to an invisible and unknown-to-Carol council to decide. Carol heard Samirah introduce Milton, who stepped up only long enough to give something of an obligatory wave to the crowd before disappearing again, and then she heard her tell everyone that Mr. Milton, who was something of a mayor to their new community, was not to be bothered without the approval of an escort.

And then the sorting began.

Coming from separate prisons, and being utter strangers to one another, there wasn't much of a scramble for people to pick their mates. They stayed where they were, still shifting their weight back and forth, and waited to be paired. Samirah called forward anyone who wanted to "trade" partners or find someone to replace a mate that they'd somehow lost or never been matched with.

She felt Daryl tighten his grip on her hand as though he feared that, somehow, she might be swept away from him and swallowed up into the sorting. She wasn't going anywhere, though. In response, and as a way of offering him some silent comfort that he seemed to need without any explanation, Carol simply tightened her own grip on Daryl's hand.

Two by two, like animals preparing to go to the ark, the prisoners were lined up by the guards.

Samirah turned her attention, then, to all of them that were gathered there. She raised her microphone once more so that the speakers could carry her voice.

"We're going to ask that all Woodbury citizens return to their homes," Samirah said. "Turn on your televisions and we'll post an announcement about when it's permissible to leave your residences. We're asking that you clear all public spaces so that the newly arriving citizens can be relocated to their homes and supplies can be handed out. They'll be fed in-home this evening and then the mess hall will re-open for your evening meals before lockdown. Tomorrow work and all activities will resume normally for established citizens. We thank you for your cooperation."

Accepting Samirah's dismissal, and certainly not wanting to cause any kind of disruption with such a large number of guards present and on edge, the whole crowd started to disperse and attempt to move toward their homes. Like he feared they'd be trampled, Daryl pulled Carol into him and hugged her against his body while everyone else moved around them like a herd that was trying to find its direction. Carol hugged him back and rested her face against his chest. She waited patiently until it no longer felt like she'd be stepped on or dragged away by the moving bodies around her, and then Carol pulled free from Daryl's arms.

"Let's head home," Carol said.

Daryl glanced back toward the area where the guards were almost circling the newcomers in such a way as to intimidate them a little with their close and watchful presence.

"They're already scared shitless," Daryl said. "A better greeting to them would've been to give us all a chance to speak. Some kind of forum where we could tell 'em what life is really like here."

"I get the feeling that's not what they want," Carol said. "Not at first. They want them to be scared before they get comfortable."

"How long you reckon they keepin' 'em under lockdown?" Daryl asked. He finally gave up trying to watch what was happening and put his hand on Carol's back, gently pushing her back in the direction of their own home.

"A week?" Carol offered. "Two or three, maybe. I don't know. I guess it depends on how they act and how they seem to fit in."

"How much longer you reckon they keepin' my brother locked up?" Daryl asked.

Carol smiled to herself. Every day Daryl asked about his brother. Every day she asked Alice about Merle and Sadie. This morning, she'd finally gotten a definitive answer from Alice after the woman had briefly discussed their plans to deal with the examinations that the new arrivals would undergo.

"A few days," Carol assured Daryl. "They're keeping quiet and acting just like they want them to act. And Sadie's got two more days before we run the tests to find out if you're going to be an uncle." Daryl laughed to himself, keeping step with Carol. She swayed her body to the side and nudged him as they walked. In response, Daryl dropped his arm around her and gently dug his fingers into her side as he pulled her closer to him. "What?" She pressed.

"Damnedest thing in the world," Daryl said, "to imagine Merle Dixon bein' some damn body's old man. Bein' some damn body's live-in or whatever the hell we're supposed to call ourselves since they don't make nothin' official. That's all. Just the damnedest thing to think it could be real."

Carol laughed to herself.

"It's real," she offered. "Hopefully you're about to be an uncle."

Daryl laughed to himself again and didn't speak until Carol had prompted him, once more, to say what he was laughing about.

"An uncle and an' old man," Daryl said. "Hell if I ever thought I'd be either one—less likely both."

Carol smiled to herself.

"Well," she said, "it's happening. All in good time—but it's happening."


	85. Chapter 85

**AN: Here we are, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Daryl couldn't think of a better way to spend an afternoon under house arrest than in the bed with Carol. They'd already decided to save themselves the effort of going for dinner by calling in the fact that they'd like theirs delivered when the rounds were being made.

The rest of the day was theirs to do with what they pleased.

Though Carol had been accommodating to Daryl's love-making requests, it was evident that something was bothering her. He could tell it just by looking at her facial expressions. He could tell it from the simple way she seemed distracted every time he wasn't actively drawing her attention to him.

Finally he'd pressed her to tell him what it was that she seemed to _need_ to tell him.

"They're shutting them all down," Carol said. "All the prisons. Region Thirty Three is being broken up. They're sending the people that are left there to other facilities. They're— _executing_ the ones that were tagged as difficult. Those people that came in today? They could be some of the last Wilds left, Daryl. _We_ could be some of the last Wilds left."

"We're not wild no more," Daryl offered, lazily trailing his fingers around her soft skin as she rested against him. "We're citizens of Woodbury. We work. We're havin' kids. Two of 'em, right off the bat. We're starting a life here. We're gettin' a school Carol. A hospital. We're getting our own place where we're gonna live like normal human beings again. Better than it was before, even."

"It could've been us," Carol said. "We could've been left behind to be executed like the others."

"But we weren't," Daryl responded. "So that means we gotta make the best of what we got. We gotta take advantage of what we got for everybody that didn't get that chance or didn't want to take it 'cause they were scared it was gonna turn out to be something other than what they said it was."

"If there are no prisons left, Daryl, then this truly is a prison community," Carol said. "And Wave Thirty Three really is the end of the line. They're waiting to see if it's successful or not. And if it isn't?"

She looked almost like she'd be sick and Daryl's stomach tightened in response to her expression. He nodded his head. He didn't need her to finish. He understood all too well what she was saying.

"But we've known that was the way it was gonna be since the beginning," Daryl said. "If you leave this place? It's gonna be a short trip to where you headed. Some damn ditch out there. That's about as far as you going. We've known that. It ain't news to us."

"I really didn't care about dying before," Carol said. "I almost—sometimes I almost want to curse you, Daryl Dixon. I didn't care about dying before. Now?"

Daryl nodded his understanding again.

"I was the same way," he said with a laugh. "I didn't give a shit if they killed me or not. Hell—some days bein' dead woulda beat the life I had. Now I'll fight like hell to stay alive. Keep you alive. Take care of them babies—and they aren't even here yet."

"The fighting is what got us here," Carol said. "If you think about it? Fighting to stay alive is what got us tagged Wild. It's what got us into prison in the first place."

"It's what kept us alive to get us there," Daryl said.

"And it's what could very well get us killed now," Carol said.

Daryl hummed at her.

"You right," he admitted. "But not if we're fighting smart. We keep on fighting, just like we always have, but now? We gotta fight their way. We gotta fight with the system instead of against it. We keep the peace, just like we been doing. We keep working—building this place into something that impresses that Governor fellow that's choosing whether or not we stay or we go. If we have to? We fight even harder to make this place into a place that's worth living in because it's our home now. They can't fault us for that. They can't fault us for doing what they wanted us to do with a whole damn lot more enthusiasm than they ever even imagined possible." Daryl tipped Carol's face so that he could clearly see her expression. He wished he could wipe away the concern that was on her features. He wished he had the ability to promise her— _truly_ promise her—that nothing would ever happen to them. He didn't have either of those abilities, though. Still, he would offer her what comfort he had to give. "We're gonna be alright. We're gonna keep fighting. But now we're fighting smart. What happens to them? To the ones that get—that they get rid of? It won't happen to us. Won't happen to nobody we know."

Carol laughed to herself, but it wasn't a sincere laugh.

"How can you promise that, Daryl?" She asked.

Daryl shrugged his shoulders.

"I just believe it," Daryl said. "And—at the end of the damn day? We outnumber 'em. We know that now, too."

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"Are you OK?" Carol asked, holding Sadie's eyes with her own. Sadie nodded her head. "Not lightheaded?" Sadie shook her head.

"Fine," Sadie said.

Alice packed up the kit with the blood that they'd take to the lab for testing.

"So how long?" Merle asked. "'Til we know if we made one or not? Doc?"

"A couple of hours at the most, Merle," Alice said.

Carol glanced at the man that she could practically consider family despite the fact that they'd had very little opportunity to get to know one another. He blanched slightly.

"A couple of hours?" He asked. He scrubbed at his face absentmindedly with his hand. "Like—you gonna tell us today? We gonna know today?"

"It's exactly like that," Alice said. "You're absolutely going to know today."

Carol smiled at Merle and then at Sadie who was trying to take in the conversation that was happening on all sides of her at once.

"Are you excited about it?" Carol asked, this time directly to Sadie. "Knowing if you're pregnant?"

Sadie shrugged her shoulders.

"I'm not sure," Sadie said. Carol only had to raise her eyebrows at her to communicate to the woman that she wanted some kind of explanation. "I'm not sure I can tell the difference between scared and excited," Sadie added. She shook her head. "Not anymore. I've been scared a lot, but—I can't really remember the last time I was really excited."

"Fair enough," Alice said, getting Sadie's attention. "Maybe—when it comes to babies? Maybe they're kind of the same thing? Maybe there's a little of both mixed in there."

"Merle?" Carol asked, directing her attention to Daryl's brother. "Scared or excited?"

Merle laughed to himself.

"My fuckin' mouth's dry and my stomach is threatenin' to tear loose," Merle said blankly.

"Tell me what scares you," Alice said. She kept eye contact with Sadie, but Carol assumed that wouldn't bother Merle. By now he seemed to appreciate when people spoke directly to Sadie and saved him the effort of going back and recapping everything for her so she wasn't permanently in the dark. "Maybe I can help."

"I lost five children," Sadie said.

Carol's stomach turned. She understood, immediately, what Sadie was saying. She knew the feelings that she was dealing with. Any of them that had lost their children understood the sensation. It was something they had in common and, honestly, there was no talking to that fear.

Carol reached her hand across the table and patted Sadie's arm.

"I understand," she said. "I've lost too. A lot of us have lost. But—we have to...we have to keep going on. We have to keep going."

Carol swallowed to keep from showing that her own mind had a hard time with the words she was saying. She knew it was true. It was absolutely true. All of them had to keep moving forward because time didn't stand still, not even for a broken heart. But Carol also understood that the heart wasn't really an organ that could be reasoned with.

Sadie just offered Carol a soft smile and nodded her head at her.

"I don't understand," Alice said, touching Sadie to get her attention once more. "I'm not going to say I do. I'm not going to pretend that I have any idea whatsoever what you're feeling right now. But I am going to tell you that I'm going to do everything in my power to make sure that you have a healthy baby and that—that nothing happens to it. OK?"

Sadie nodded her head at Alice.

"Thank you," she said, raising her hand to offer Alice the sign that had become familiar to all of them.

"What about you, Papa?" Alice asked, directing her attention to Merle. "What's got you so worked up?"

"Not a damn thing you can help with, Doc," Merle said.

Alice laughed to herself.

"I'm pretty damn flexible, Merle," Alice said. "Give me a shot. What's on your mind? Normal Papa stuff? Worried about if—you'll know what to do with the kid?"

"Worried about if I can do a single damn thing with it," Merle said. He held up his stump as an illustration of some of his concerns.

Alice nodded her head knowingly.

"You're going to work it out," Alice said. "I'm talking to them right now about getting me some help from the Regional Hospital. It's a big hospital that's not far from here. They're a research institution and they've got pretty much everything you could want. The greatest minds gathered together and all that jazz. Among other things, they've done some work with prosthetics. I can't promise anything, Merle, but I'm doing everything I can to get you an arm—a good arm. Something to set you up like you never even lost that hand."

"She can't hear the kid if it cries, Doc," Merle said. He swallowed and shook his head. "And I don't even know if I can pick it up."

Alice nodded again and sucked in a breath. She let it out slowly, running her tongue across her bottom lip.

"You'll be able to do more than you think," Alice said. "And if it'll make you feel better? I'll get something we can practice with and bring it over here. You can do something like training. Just to get used to handling the weight of a baby. If all else fails, Merle? You can always just alert Sadie to the baby crying."

"An' I leave her fuckin' ass to handle the whole damn thing," Merle said. "I'm nothin' but a sperm donor in the whole damn thing."

Alice smiled to herself. She shook her head at Merle.

"With feelings as strong as that? You won't be a sperm donor, Merle. Even if you can't help with everything? You won't be just a sperm donor. I can promise you that with absolute certainty. Where there's a will that strong? There's a way," Alice said. She tapped Sadie's hand lightly. "What do you think? Is Merle nothing more than a sperm donor in all this?"

Sadie furrowed her brows at Alice and then she looked at Merle. Carol bit the inside of her cheek. Sadie didn't have to say anything. The quick gesture of her fingers—whether it was a true sign or something that she'd only created for Merle, Carol didn't know—and the way she held her mouth said everything.

Carol heard it loud and clear, even though Sadie never said the words.

 _"What the fuck, Merle?"_

Merle responded by simply standing up from where he was and walking across the room of the house to a spot that he'd designated, apparently, as his "smoking section". He sat down on a stool near the window that they wouldn't allow him to open yet and lit a cigarette.

Sadie blew out her breath and looked at Alice, shaking her head.

"No," she said. "We're— _happy_? We—we want to have a baby together. But—it's a lot. And we're scared. We don't know what to expect. I know how to be pregnant. I've done it before. But I don't know how to be pregnant _here_." She tapped her finger on the table as though she were illustrating her point. Being here was entirely unlike being anywhere she'd ever been before.

"The same way you would anywhere," Alice said. "This is your home and you're safe here. We're going to keep you safe. You just—cooperate and you do what you're supposed to do. Nothing's going to happen to you if you're calm and peaceful. Don't cause any trouble and you won't have any problems. If you're pregnant? They'll probably lift all your restrictions, to be honest. Right now you two are model citizens."

Sadie nodded her head.

"Merle is afraid because..." She lifted her arm to gesture that he was, as he'd told them, dealing with some insecurities about his abilities. "I told him—it doesn't matter."

"You're right," Alice said. "It doesn't matter. Listen to her, Merle. It doesn't matter. All that matters is that you two keep doing what you're doing. Lay low. Relax. Enjoy your lives. But let me know, right now, if—if this test turns out positive, am I supposed to come in here with fucking cake and a big ass congratulations or do I need to get something black to wear?"

Sadie simply laughed to herself. She turned her eyes to watch Merle as he sat brooding and sucking on his cigarette. Carol caught him glance in Sadie's direction before he scratched at his face with the fingers not holding his cigarette.

"Just make sure the damn cake's got some decent fucking icing," Merle said. "If you gonna do it, Doc, you might as well do that shit big."


	86. Chapter 86

**AN: Here we are, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"I don't understand why Regional has to be pulled into this," Alice said. She flipped through the folder in front of her and closed it again. It hadn't changed since the last time she'd flipped through it. The orders were all there and they were still written in the language that she couldn't help but feel was used simply to obscure things.

"Regional is a leading research hospital," Samirah said. "Everything there is state of the art."

"And?" Alice asked. "If these are just simple genetic tests then we're equipped to handle them."

"Al..." Samirah said. It was more of a plea than just a simple statement of Alice's name. Alice heard everything behind it. She heard everything that Samirah wasn't putting into words. Please, Alice—don't ask questions. Please don't rock the boat. Please don't make any of this more difficult than it simply has to be.

Alice looked at Milton who was sitting, one leg crossed over the other which was bouncing nervously, next to Samirah. He brought her with him every time they had meetings like this so that Samirah could simply step in and handle things. Milton was excellent with the science side of everything, but if he had things his way, he'd never actually interact with anyone who worked under him.

"Why, Milton?" Alice asked. "Why does Regional have to be involved?"

"They're processing the information," Milton said. "Regional is a state of the art research facility. The greatest minds in medicine are working there."

"I know," Alice said. "I used to work there, remember? Before I signed on to this project? Before you asked me if I'd be interested in running this goat and pony show? But that was the deal. We ran things for Wave Thirty Three out of the community. Out of Woodbury. Why is Regional suddenly pissing in my back yard?"

Samirah sighed. Alice was almost relieved to hear the sound. It was usually a sign that the woman was giving up the put-on act that was sometimes required for her job. The meeting was a closed and private meeting. They weren't being observed. They weren't being recorded. There was no need for any kind of show. Whatever was said across the small table would stay between the three of them unless they chose to share it with someone else.

"Regional is a government run hospital," Samirah said. "Government run and—government funded."

"Find me one thing that isn't these days," Alice responded.

"The government wants the tests to be processed through Regional to make sure that the data is the most accurate data that can be collected," Samirah said. "They want to make sure that the results are the..."

"They want to make sure I don't tamper with the results," Alice finished quickly for the woman. Samirah's expression told her that she was correct. Alice sat back in her chair. "Am I under some kind of investigation, Sam?"

"Nothing like that," Samirah assured her.

"Then there's some kind of suspicion that I'm tampering with the project?" Alice asked.

"Nothing like that, either," Samirah said.

"Then why the fuck don't they trust me to handle the tests?" Alice asked.

"Someone suggested that—all data should be screened. And the best way to screen the data is to—well—it's to have an unbiased eye examine it. No one at Regional is connected to the project. They don't have anything to gain or lose by the success or failure of Wave Thirty Three," Samirah said.

Alice swallowed back her frustration.

"And what the hell do I have to gain or lose?" Alice asked. "If it tanks, I'm out of a job. That's it. It's not like I couldn't walk away from this job _tonight_ and have another job by morning. I could work at Regional again in a heartbeat. In fact? They're holding my position just in case I want it back."

"Someone suggested that—we might be too close to the project," Samirah said. "It was suggested that you—and I—and a few others might be too close to it. Opinions we've expressed in the past regarding the Wilds are..."

"Coming back to bite us in the ass?" Alice asked.

Samirah laughed to herself. It wasn't a sincere laugh. She was as deep in this as Alice was. She didn't want to see Wave Thirty Three fail either. Alice figured, personally, that it was because Samirah had a heart and a little bit of morality left—but that was just her personal take on why it would be that anyone might not support the mass execution of Wilds-formerly-known-as-people.

"Something like that, Alice," Samirah said.

"Who?" Alice asked.

Samirah shook her head.

"It doesn't matter," Samirah said.

"It matters to me," Alice said. "I want to know who the hell it is."

"Don't cause a scene," Samirah suggested.

Alice looked at Milton. Despite the fact he was having a difficult time swallowing—something that would normally make Alice suspect he was guilty—Alice just couldn't believe that Milton Mamet would be behind any of this. The project was his personal baby. It was, arguably, more important to him than it was to anyone. If he succeeded in proving Kreegan's theories wrong, Milton would secure a place for himself in every history book ever printed.

"Milton?" Alice asked.

"For the results of the project to be taken seriously, they need to be evaluated by a number of trusted individuals," Milton said. "Allowing Regional to assess the tests would prove that we have nothing to hide. We're not tampering with, as you say, or altering the results in any way. All results will be complete and accurate. It provides an insurance policy, if you will, against any accusations that may be launched against Wave Thirty Three and anyone involved in the research."

Alice nodded her head and dampened her chapped lips with her tongue.

"And who suggested that we weren't providing accurate data in the first place?" Alice asked, holding Milton's eyes for just a moment before he looked away from her and shook his head.

"No such accusation has been made," Milton said. "Not—not in so many words."

"It was simply suggested that it could happen," Samirah said. "Therefore the government decided it would be best if all tests beyond the regular medical examinations were passed through Regional."

Alice sucked in a breath and held it against her growing annoyance.

"Jesus! I'm not going to go after her with a chainsaw! I just want to fucking hear you say who it was that made that accusation! I want to hear you say who it was!" Alice said.

She saw both Samirah and Milton jump and she immediately checked herself. She crossed her arms across her chest and sat back in her chair, trying to let them know that she could and would remain calm.

"You can't say anything, Alice," Samirah said. "You can't do anything. It wasn't an accusation and it's not being treated as such. But doing anything?"

"Pinky promise and scouts' honor," Alice said. "It was Hurricane Maggie?"

Samirah nodded her head.

"It doesn't change anything about the project moving forward," Samirah said. "It just means a slight delay in getting results back."

"A fucking week or more of asking these people to sweat it out," Alice said. "That's what it means. Regional is too busy for their own good and they're always backed up and delayed. If everything goes according to plan, I'm taking care of a horde of expectant mothers who are already nervous and on high alert. Now I've got to ask them to submit to invasive exams and sit on their damn hands waiting for results for—I don't even know how long it could take to get something back."

"Just encourage the mothers to remain calm," Samirah said. "Let them know that the hospital is slow at returning test results. Hearing nothing doesn't mean anything."

"I can tell them that," Alice said. "But these are people who are traumatized and terrified. I feel like I'm putting them at risk. I'm putting the babies at risk. If I ask them to sit on that kind of anxiety? Especially with the damn questionnaires of horror that they're being subjected to in the psychological screenings."

"We're confident you can handle it," Samirah said. She laughed nervously to herself again. "And it doesn't matter anyway, Al. This is out of our hands. It's out of Milton's hands. It's coming from all the way at the top. The Governor wants these checks and balances in place in the project."

"Fuck," Alice muttered. She opened the folder again and read through the first page. It was the first page of a three page document that introduced her to the tests that she'd be running and the way that those tests would be handled. Beyond that, there was more detailed information about how she should administer the tests and how the results should be read. "It should be elective," Alice said, closing the folder. "It should be up to each mother whether or not she wants to subject herself and her unborn child to the test."

"It's absolutely not elective," Samirah said, shaking her head. "Every pregnancy."

"What about the risk?" Alice asked. "There's risk involved in this kind of procedure. Miscarriage. How do I tell these mothers that they have to submit to this test when it carries a risk that most of them aren't going to be happy to hear about?"

"Downplay the risk," Samirah said. "It's a miniscule risk at any rate. The chances of miscarriage are low."

"But they're there," Alice said. Alice looked at Milton. "Is this what you want? You want to—you want to risk losing the pregnancies? For these test results? You want to risk Andrea losing your child—delaying the _entire fucking project_ for these test results?"

"The tests are mandated by the government," Milton said. "They're required for moving forward with the project. If any such difficulties should arise, we'll simply begin again."

Alice laughed to herself.

"Begin again. Because we're working with test subjects—not human beings with feelings and emotions," Alice said. "We're working with animals, right? They won't know that they're sad over their losses. They'll all just submit again. Get pregnant again and again. Try again. Keep trying. Never knowing if history will just keep repeating itself."

"Alice..." Samirah said. She shook her head at Alice when Alice looked at her. "None of us like it. I don't like it. Milton doesn't like it. But in order to move forward with the project? We've got to follow the _rules_. You know that as well as I do. The Governor passed down the information on the tests and he wants the results as we're moving forward. If we comply and run the tests, we run a minimal risk of losing some of the pregnancies. If we don't? We lose the _whole project_. Wave Thirty Three gets shut down if we don't follow the rules. It's not a risk we want to take, but it's a risk we _have_ to take."

"The needs of the many," Alice said. Samirah nodded her head. Alice glanced at Milton. He was clearly dealing with an abnormally large amount of anxiety at the moment.

Wave Thirty Three was his baby. And, whether or not he'd ever voice it in front of anyone, he also had a personal tie to the project that went beyond the scientific one. Andrea was carrying his actual biological baby. He could pretend that he was capable of ignoring that, but Alice knew that he wasn't.

The tests were government mandated genetic tests.

If they didn't do them, the project failed without a fighting chance.

Alice nodded her head.

"All pregnancies?" She asked.

Samirah nodded her head.

"What about my high risk pregnancies?" Alice asked. "We've got the twins. These kinds of test can be a little trickier with twins."

"You're a great surgeon," Samirah said. "An excellent doctor. You got your position at Regional for having the steadiest hands in current medicine." Samirah laughed to herself. "It certainly wasn't for having the coolest head," she added. "If anyone can perform the tests with the least amount of risk to the developing fetus? It's you, Alice, and I know that you know that."

"Everyone," Alice said.

"Everyone," Samirah echoed.

Alice sighed.

"Fine," she said. "I'll do my best. I'll stress to my mothers the importance that they remain calm. I'll stress that the risk is a two percent risk and it's reduced if they stay calm and work with me. I'll—watch them. Stress some relaxation and aftercare. Tell them that Regional is slow and they just—have to be patient."

"It's all you can do," Samirah said.

"And when I get the results?" Alice asked.

"You'll report them to the mothers," Samirah said. "One copy goes straight to you, one to Milton, one to me, and one to the doctor that reads the results for the Governor. He's coming from Regional. He's not involved in the project at all. He's just there to be entirely unbiased."

"Is he unbiased?" Alice asked. "Has anyone screened him about his beliefs when it comes to the Wilds?"

Samirah nodded her head.

"I don't know him," Samirah said. "At least not personally. But I know that he doesn't believe in the idea of being fundamentally wild. The four copies of the results, though, mean that nobody can change anything. There's a lot of checks and balances there."

"If the tests come back negative?" Alice asked.

"If the tests come back negative and the pregnancies continue to thrive, then it's just business as usual," Samirah said. "Nothing changes from our original plan. It's all the same as it was before this information came down the line."

Alice nodded.

"And if they come back positive?" She asked. She swallowed, her stomach tightening and twisting itself into a knot. She didn't have to hear Samirah's words. She didn't have to try to interpret Milton's nervous glance in her direction. She understood, immediately, that negative results were something they didn't even want to consider.


	87. Chapter 87

**AN: Here we are, another chapter here.**

 **I'm back now, at least when life allows me the time to write. I'm hoping it's much more often than it has been these past few months. While I was away I had two people contact me about this story (thank you for that!), so I took that as a good indication that somebody, at least, would be interested in another chapter for this one. I hope this doesn't disappoint as we move forward!**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Daryl stood on the sidewalk and stared at his brother. He felt like he hadn't seen him in a lifetime. Part of him felt like he'd never actually seen the man that was standing there, prosthetic limb on one arm and a woman on the other, _smiling_ at him.

In many ways, Merle Dixon had seen better days. His experiences since Daryl had last seen him left scars on his body. He'd lost a hand and part of his arm. He looked battered and bruised, even though everything was as healed over as it could possibly be. His hair was thinning and much more silver than it had been.

In many ways, being the wildest of the Wilds had aged Merle and treated him badly.

But in other ways?

There was a genuine happiness in Merle's eyes that Daryl was positive he'd never seen before. His whole life, when he conjured Merle up in his mind's eyes, he remembered his brother's eyes as looking a little cloudy. His eyelids looked a little heavy. There was a lot of truth and anger and weariness in Merle's eyes. But that was gone now. Maybe it still existed, somewhere deep down, but it was gone to the naked eye.

The woman standing at Merle's left arm—Sadie—was shorter than even Carol. She was of a little stockier build than Carol, but she was a small woman just the same. Daryl could hardly look at her and imagine that she qualified to be called one of the most dangerous women in the world-as-they-knew-it. She was deaf, and Daryl knew that, but she seemed to drift in and out of her interest in the conversation. More often than not, she seemed to be staring at Carol and Daryl, but she wasn't attempting to say much. She gave a smile, every now and again, and Daryl assumed it was more to let them know that she meant them no ill feelings than it was to express genuine amusement. Of course, the more that Daryl thought about it, the more he figured it might simply be exhausting for the woman to try to keep up with the conversation, and not much was happening that she couldn't be filled in on if it was necessary.

Daryl had no idea what Sadie had looked like before the turn. He had no way of knowing. Everything about their pasts was lost beyond that which existed in the stories they told—and even those didn't have to be true if they didn't want them to be. At this point, though, Sadie looked worn and tired like Merle. She had some scars that were immediately visible to Daryl's eyes and he suspected that she hadn't worn them before everything.

It hadn't been any easier on her than it had been on any of them.

"Who the hell woulda thought, lil' brotha?" Merle mused again. He was better at conversation than Daryl had ever been, but at the moment he seemed unable to link too many thoughts together. Maybe he was overwhelmed with everything that was going on. Maybe he had simply fallen out of the practice of talking to more than just the woman on his arm. Maybe, honestly, they'd all forgotten how to do all the little "civilized" things of the old world. "Who the hell...woulda thought? The damn Dixons. You an' me. Both of us with a lil' woman an' kids on the way," Merle mused once more.

Daryl laughed to himself over the fact that Carol forced a laugh and continued to smile. He could see that her face was hurting from keeping the expression going, but she wasn't going to be rude. She'd rather die than be rude to his brother during the first conversation that the four of them were allowed to have in public and like normal human beings. She wouldn't ruin Merle and Sadie's first day out of the house with rudeness. Even after everything, that wasn't Carol's style. She still held onto enough "civilization" that she'd never let that happen if she could avoid it.

"I wouldn'ta thought it of your ass, that's for damned sure," Daryl said. "Come tellin' me that'cha got yourself some lil' woman and Merle Dixon's actually gonna have a kid." Daryl laughed to himself. "I'm sure it weren't the first one, but it's the first _you_ ever knew about."

Merle laughed quietly. He pulled his arm loose from Sadie and she followed his hand with her eyes as he reached up to scratch at the back of his neck. She might not be entirely aware of the conversation, but she was fully aware of every move that Merle made.

What made the whole interaction difficult, Daryl thought, was that they were trying to make this as normal as possible, but deep down they all knew that it wasn't normal. Daryl cared for Carol and, after seeing him, he had no doubt that Merle must have some feelings for Sadie, but this wasn't normal. They'd been put together, in couples, to procreate. And even though he and Carol had been given some choice in the matter, Daryl knew that Merle and Sadie hadn't—and they wouldn't ever be given any choice.

Only a week had passed since they'd come with a truck and they'd taken away, bound just as they'd been when they'd come, the other "wildest of the wilds" that they'd been keeping under maximum security lockdown in the fenced in area. They'd reported it, on the rolling and repetitive news channel, as the authorities taking them to a more "suitable" place, but everyone knew what it meant. Those people—and they were still people, even if they'd lost touch with it—would never be seen or heard from again.

Only today were they finally allowing Sadie and Merle to pretend that things were normal and to leave their house since Alice had convinced them that some fresh air and a little exercise would be good for Sadie and the baby that she wore no current physical evidence of carrying.

But things _weren't_ normal. Not six feet away from them, Daryl could see a guard watching them. The guy appeared relaxed, but he was watching them with some care. He suspected Merle and Sadie might try something. He thought he should be ready for it.

It was hard to have a normal conversation when you were being watched and everything you did—even scratching the back of your neck—made the guard stand a little more at attention.

 _But they were doing their best._

"Don't know if we gettin' some kinda two for one deal," Merle said. "Not like you an' the lil' lady here. I mean—Doc says it's too early for her to tell much except that the kid's there. Sadie's growin' it right like she oughta."

"It would be fun to have twins together," Carol offered. There was a slight catch in her voice. Daryl didn't believe it had anything to do with any opinion she may have about Merle and Sadie having twins. He thought she was probably responding to the presence of the guard. The man made her nervous. The man made Daryl nervous, too.

"Listen, brother," Daryl said, eying the guard. "Wanna—see ya. Wanna talk to ya. But—Barney Fife over there? He's uh...he's..."

Merle glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the guard and Sadie turned her head, too, to watch the man.

"Yeah—he's tailin' our ass for a week," Merle said. "'Til they trust we know how the hell to behave ourselves, ya know? No killin' people with the damn knives we ain't got or—pissin' on the sidewalk. Unpredictable shit our wild ass selves might do. He's guardin' you good people of Woodbury against it all."

Daryl laughed to himself.

"I don't know about good people," Daryl said, still stealing glances at the guard. "Here—we're still wild too. Wild until proven human, I reckon. That's the drill."

Merle hummed at him.

"Still, Derlina—some of us is a heap more wild than others," Merle said. "At least to them we are. And when they holdin' the guns? Their opinions is the only damn ones that counts."

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"Genetic testing," Alice said. "Like—for genetic mutations or abnormalities. Any problems the baby might have."

"Like amniocentesis?" Michonne asked.

"Yeah," Alice said. "Exactly. Exactly like that. We'll take some of the amniotic fluid and it'll be sent to a lab at Regional. They've got a really excellent lab. It'll take a little while—maybe even a week or so—but they'll send the results back to us and then I'll come visit you and we'll talk about it. We'll discuss, you know, where we go from there."

"What do you mean?" Andrea asked. "Where we go from there?"

Michonne moved a hand over and rested it on Andrea's leg. She wanted Andrea to remain as calm as she possibly could. There was no need in getting upset until there was actually something that they needed to be upset about. At the moment there was nothing concrete. As far as they were being told, Alice had just come over to explain some tests that she was going to perform the next day.

But Michonne considered herself pretty good at reading people, and Alice wasn't exactly difficult to read. The woman was hiding something or, if she wasn't hiding it, she wasn't telling them everything they needed to know. Andrea wasn't stupid and she could pick up on it too. That was why Andrea was already getting worked up and Michonne knew it. Like Michonne, she wanted the whole story.

Alice shrugged her shoulders.

"Well—I mean—if things look good then that's excellent," Alice said. "You just—carry on. After the test I'll want you to take it easy. Just for a day or so. Just to make sure that everything goes well and there aren't any complications..."

"Complications?" Andrea interjected.

Alice held up a hand to calm her. She shook her head.

"It's an invasive procedure," Alice said. "The needle has to puncture the amniotic sac. There's a small chance that it could cause some complications, but it's a very small chance. It's hardly—well, it's hardly worth mentioning."

"But you have to mention it," Michonne said, "because it's a chance."

Alice nodded her head.

"It's a chance," Alice said. "But it's really not that much of a chance. You can rest afterward and just take it easy. Relax. Really? I don't think you have anything to worry about."

"How much of a chance?" Andrea asked. "I mean—are we talking a point-five percent chance or a five percent chance?"

Alice laughed nervously.

"Does it matter to you either way?" Alice asked.

Andrea sat back and relaxed into the back of the couch. She shook her head.

"No," she admitted. "Any chance is too much of a chance."

Alice nodded her head.

"I understand you're concerned," Alice said. "But I don't think that you have to really worry. It's a two percent chance and—we'll do everything we can to make sure that things go well. The stress, honestly, is probably worse for you than the test. Just try to relax. It'll be over before you know it and you can just put your feet up and force Michonne to spoil you."

"You said if everything is fine then we just continue as we have been," Michonne said. Alice nodded at her and Michonne sat forward, closing the space between herself and the brunette a little more. "What if everything _isn't_ fine?" Instinctively, Michonne patted Andrea's leg to comfort her over even the mention of such a possibility. She'd probably be up half the night trying to calm Andrea down before the test—and she didn't even want to think, at the moment, what tomorrow would be like.

Alice visibly swallowed and clearly considered her answer very carefully. Michonne knew she wasn't acting on her own. The test wasn't Alice's idea. She hadn't come here to sell them something she really believed in. She'd come here to sell them something that she'd been hired to sell. It couldn't have been clearer to Michonne, watching Alice's face, if the woman had been reading from cue cards she produced from her pocket.

"Well—we'll discuss it," Alice said. "Depending on—depending on what we find...if we find anything at all...then we'll discuss it. There will be options. Options we'll need to discuss." Alice shook her head at both of them and quickly put on a strained smile. "But there's no need to worry about that," she assured them. "Being positive is the best medicine there is and, right now? We're just going to focus on doing the test tomorrow and pampering Andrea a little. I don't believe we'll find anything to be concerned about. But—if we do? We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, OK?"

"If it's genetic testing," Michonne said, "then it should be _optional._ I was given the chance to choose with both of my daughters." She shook her head at Alice. "Both times, I opted out of the tests. It didn't matter to me if—if my baby was born with two heads. She was still my child." Alice nodded her head, more like she was signaling that she was following along rather than actually agreeing with anything that Michonne was saying. "In the woods? Out there? We didn't have anything. No prenatal care. No vitamins. There were days when we didn't eat and I did everything I could just to make sure that Andrea got a drink of water every day. Our baby was...he was _fine_."

Andrea moved her hand to squeeze Michonne's and Michonne turned her hand to return the gesture. Alice nodded her head a little more sincerely than before.

"I understand," Alice said.

Michonne shook her head at Alice.

"I'm sorry," Michonne said. "But—two percent is two percent too high for us. We don't care if he or she has any problems. We can deal with it. We don't want the test."

Alice nodded her he again.

"I understand," she said, her voice fading out slightly at the end of her words. She licked her lips and then shook her head at both of them. She leaned forward. "I understand and—I'm sorry. I really am. But I don't think that you understand me. The test? I came here to tell you about it. I came here to prepare you so—so that you weren't surprised when I came to get you tomorrow and started sticking needles in you. I didn't come here to get your permission. The test isn't optional. It's mandatory. And—straight from the Governor? You can either submit to it or be returned to prison."

Michonne knew exactly what being returned to prison meant. She squeezed Andrea's hand in hers and looked at Andrea. Andrea looked tired and worried. She wasn't even trying to pretend that she wasn't either of those things.

Andrea nodded.

"I guess you've got your answer," Andrea said. "We'll see you tomorrow. What time?"

"I'll come early," Alice said. "Before breakfast. That way you've got the whole day to relax and you don't have to worry any longer than necessary."

Alice reached her hand out and caught Andrea's other hand—the one Michonne wasn't rubbing between her own two hands. Alice rubbed Andrea's hand between her fingers and she gave Andrea her best reassuring smile.

"Don't worry," Alice said. "I meant what I said. I can't make you promises. I'm not God. But I can tell you that I believe—I _truly believe_ that there won't be any problem. And tomorrow? I'll take good care of you. You've got my word—for whatever it's worth."


	88. Chapter 88

**AN: Here we are, another chapter here.**

 **Warning on this chapter for discussion of miscarriage and abortion.**

 **I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"Why the hell do you even need somethin' like that?" Daryl asked around a mouthful of his dinner. They'd chosen to eat the meal at home. Carol was tired and she didn't want to deal with the busyness of the dining hall. Daryl wasn't hard to convince since he'd much rather spend his time in their home than he would elbowing his way through a herd of people to have his food.

"It's a—well, it's a genetic test, Daryl," Carol said. "It sort of—it tells you whether or not there's anything wrong with the baby or, in our case, whether or not there's anything with the babies."

Carol wasn't entirely sure how to explain the test to Daryl other than it was a genetic test that would scan for abnormalities. As far as she knew, they'd been around forever. They'd at least been around since before the turn. She'd been offered one of the tests when she'd been pregnant with Sophia. The only difference, then, was that she'd been given the right to refuse the test when she decided that it wasn't something she was interested in having.

"What's wrong with 'em?" Daryl asked.

"Nothing," Carol responded quickly. "At least that's what we hope, right?" She got a nod from Daryl, but his expression still said that he was confused. "The test just checks to make sure that there's nothing wrong. It _confirms_ that there's nothing wrong."

"So why you wanna do that anyway?" Daryl asked. "When the kids get born you're gonna find out if there's somethin' wrong. Why don't you just—wait until they're born? You think you'd wanna know all that time that there's somethin' wrong that you're just sorta waiting on?"

Carol shook her head.

"No," she said. "I don't want to know if there's anything wrong, and I certainly don't want to spend the rest of the pregnancy worrying about what might be wrong or how we'll deal with it if there is something wrong. But the test gives people choices."

"Choices?" Daryl asked, raising his eyebrows at her. Apparently noticing that she'd somewhat forgotten to eat while they were talking, Daryl extended his arm and pointed at her food with his fork. He nodded at her, quietly reminding her that she had to eat. He was reminding her that he expected her to eat. He took it very seriously that she get enough food, even if he was only guessing at what was enough by what seemed reasonable to him. Carol picked up her own fork in response and chewed through a bite of meat and potatoes before she spoke to him again.

"If there's something wrong with their baby, some people might not want to—they might not feel like they can handle it," Carol said. "The test lets them know ahead of time that there's something there. They can decide to—they can figure out if they want to just prepare for what's coming or, if they want, they can decide to, you know, end the pregnancy."

Daryl stared at her. She wasn't certain, but Carol thought he changed colors slightly.

"You mean kill it?" Daryl asked. "Just kill their kid?"

"I believe the preferred medical term is _terminate_ the pregnancy," Carol said. "It's not something that they're going to enter into lightly, Daryl..."

Carol wasn't sure that Daryl even heard the last of her words. He absolutely changed colors then. His expression gave away his discomfort over the thought more than the slight change in the color of his face did.

"You can call it whatever the hell you want," Daryl said. "You can paint it with whatever fancy ass words you want, but it's the same, ain't it? You talkin' about killin' the kids?"

"Not me!" Carol snapped back quickly, checking Daryl's tone for him if he should have forgotten to check it for himself. "I'm saying that's an option that exists. I'm saying that—the tests give everyone a chance to decide how they want to handle things. And maybe that's the way that some people want to handle things. Depending on what's wrong, maybe that's how they feel like they _have_ to handle it. The test could let them know all kinds of things, Daryl. They might not feel like they really have a choice."

Daryl frowned at his food to keep from frowning at Carol. In all her life, Carol thought she'd never seen a man look more displeased with a steak than Daryl looked at that exact moment. He took his time, frowning over his food, before he looked at her again and shook his head.

"I don't wanna—I don't like the idea of doin' that," Daryl said.

Carol shook her head.

"Me either. Not personally," Carol said. "But it's everyone's choice what happens."

"I can't believe that'd be so," Daryl said. "Not as much as they wantin' kids around here. Not the way they been pushin' everybody gettin' knocked up since we got here. You tellin' me that now they just gonna give out the choice to everybody to end what they got already? Don't make no sense to me, Carol."

Carol shrugged her shoulders and shook her head.

"I don't think it's like that," Carol said. "It's not that just anyone can make the choice to end their pregnancy. I think that it's only one of those things that if something was wrong? And if that something was bad enough? Like—like if it was inevitable anyway? I think they're just giving them the opportunity to end it now instead of carrying the baby to term just to lose it. I mean—mothers can die too, you know?"

Daryl nodded his head. The line between his eyebrows hadn't faded and his frown was still sharply drawing the corners of his mouth downward.

"Yeah," he said. "I know that."

"It's not something that Alice is pushing or even hoping for," Carol said. "But it's one of the options that the test does give someone if something's terribly wrong."

"What about the project?" Daryl asked. Carol sighed.

"A baby that isn't going to survive isn't going to survive," Carol said. "Project or not. Maybe the government and Milton and anyone else who makes decisions is reasonable enough to understand that." Carol shook her head. "It's not an option that Alice is really promoting, but it's there. I guess—it's just one of the possibilities. Maybe the other is just that everyone knows so you can be prepared if there's anything that you need to prepare for. I don't know. I can't really say too much. We still don't know too much about it yet. Andrea's the first one that's done it."

"You don't think she'd end it," Daryl said. Carol wasn't entirely sure if it was a statement or a question, but she decided to take it as a question. She shook her head.

"I'm certain Andrea wouldn't," Carol said. "She absolutely wouldn't. I don't think she would even if it meant that it would kill her. Her biggest concern of the whole thing was that it comes with risks."

"What kinda risks?" Daryl asked quickly.

"Miscarriage," Carol said. She wasn't going to pretend that she was really interested in her food anymore. It had lost its appeal with the topic of conversation and it was cold now. In hindsight, she wished she'd saved the discussion for after dinner and had simply pressed Daryl to be the first to talk about his workday. It would've made for better over-dinner chat to listen to him tell her amusing stories about T-Dog and their day working together on the in-progress clinic. "Losing the baby. She's terrified."

Daryl nodded his head. He'd lost interest in his food as well. He'd put his knife and fork down and Carol doubted he'd pick them back up again. More than likely, he'd get up soon and take it all into the kitchen to put it, just as it was, in the tub that he'd hand out the door when they came around to collect used dishes and discarded food.

"That a—there a good chance?" Daryl asked. "That that happens?"

"Not a good chance," Carol said. "But a small chance. Alice doesn't seem to think it's too much to worry about. She just, you know, told her to go home and take it easy. Rest. Let her know if there was anything she was concerned about. She'll get the results back in a week or so. Maybe sooner." Carol shrugged her shoulders. "Now that Andrea's done it, it looks like I'm next."

Daryl stared at her and Carol tried to read him, but she couldn't. He was just looking at her. He started and stopped several times and finally spoke.

"Would you?" Daryl asked. "If things weren't—if they didn't turn out like you was hopin' they turned out...would you?"

"End the pregnancy?" Carol asked.

Daryl nodded. Carol offered him the only kind of smile that she could at the moment, a faint smile of reassurance that she hoped came across like she wanted it to. She shook her head.

"No," she said. "I wouldn't. I don't think I could. Would you want me to?"

Daryl considered it and shrugged.

"If it was—if it was you or them? Then—maybe I'd...but I don't want..." Daryl stammered.

Carol didn't need him to finish what he was trying to say. She didn't need to hear it and it was clear that it was causing him a lot of mixed emotions just to say it. She reached her hand across the table and took Daryl's hand. She squeezed it and he stopped trying to find words that he really didn't want to say in the first place. He just looked at her hand wrapped around his and the line between his eyebrows softened a little.

"I don't want to," Carol said. "I don't know if I could. No matter what they told me, or what I found out? I really don't know if—I just don't know if I could. But this is all hypothetical, Daryl. It's all something that we're worrying about and...we don't even know what the tests might say. They might come back and say that there isn't a problem at all."

Daryl rolled his eyes upward, then, and looked at Carol. He nodded his head.

"Everything might be just fine," he offered.

Carol nodded. It was easier, then, to offer him a reassuring smile.

"It might," she agreed.

"That uh—that same risk thing? It apply to you?" Daryl asked.

"It applies to everyone," Carol said. "Maybe just a touch more to me."

The line between Daryl's eyebrows reappeared quickly.

"Why?" He asked.

"Two babies," Carol said. "Twice the risk."

Daryl shook his head.

"Then don't do it," Daryl said. "I'm serious, Carol. Don't do it. If you don't wanna end it no damn way and I don't care one way or another if our kids is got one head or three—what the hell's it even worth doin' for? I mean it. If the only reason to do it is to find out if there's somethin' wrong with the kids to figure out if you don't even wanna have 'em no more, and we already know that it ain't gonna change our minds? Why the hell take the risk?"

"It's not that simple," Carol said. "If it was up to me? I wouldn't do it, Daryl. I'd rather just—let nature take its course and I'd rather just see how things turn out. But it isn't up to me and it isn't up to you."

"I don't know who the hell else somethin' like that oughta be up to," Daryl responded.

"The government," Carol said blankly. "We're still prisoners. Until we're not, we're still prisoners. And, as prisoners? We don't have any rights. The only right we have when it comes to this test is to submit willingly. Otherwise?" Carol shrugged her shoulders. "It'll still happen, it'll just happen with me in some sort of holding pen where they'll keep me until they decide what to do with the babies. And then we lose them anyway. We lose everything."

"Fuck that," Daryl said. "Fuck them..."

But whether or not he was angry about it, or whether or not he didn't care for the practice, Daryl knew that there was nothing they could do about it. He knew that what Carol was saying was the truth. The only right they had, really, was the right to obey. They could do whatever they wanted, as long as what they wanted to do fell under the description of obedience.

Carol patted Daryl's hand.

"It's OK," Carol said. "The risk is minimal. Alice assured me of that. She's got a team from the best hospital in the area that came to help her with Andrea to make sure that everything went perfectly smoothly. They'll come back to help with me. I'll just take it easy, enjoy a little day-cation with my feet up and it'll all be fine."

Daryl looked at Carol and slowly the line lost some of its depth again. Carol saw his throat bob as he swallowed. He nodded his head.

"What can I do?" He asked.

"You can come with me," Carol said. "Hold my hand? Alice'll give you a pass and you can help take care of me the rest of the day afterwards. Spend the day with me."

Daryl nodded his head. He turned his hand so that he could hold Carol's in his. He worked her hand in his hard enough that she bit back the urge to ask him to stop. He didn't mean for it to be uncomfortable and she knew that. It was quite the contrary. He was trying to offer her the same kind of comfort that she'd given him by touching his hand. He simply wasn't aware, especially when he was frustrated with things outside their little home, of how strong he could be. When Carol flinched, he seemingly became aware of it because he loosened his grip and whispered an apology that Carol waved away by shaking her head at him and smiling at him once more.

"I can do that," Daryl said. "If they'll let me off work for it."

"They'll let you off work for it," Carol said. She winked at him. "Doctor's orders."

Daryl laughed to himself.

"I don't like it, though," he said. "I'd rather you just didn't have to do it."

"Me too," Carol responded. "But there's no need in talking about what we'd prefer. We're not getting it anyway." Carol looked at the abandoned plates of food. "I guess I ruined dinner."

Daryl laughed to himself.

"Weren't that good anyway," Daryl said. "But—what'cha say we pack all this shit up and we order somethin' for dessert? Maybe—we could get us some ice cream or somethin'? You like that. Find us a comfortable spot. You could read me some more of that book you started readin' me?"

Carol was surprised at how warm her chest felt suddenly. She didn't realize how tense she felt over everything, especially after seeing how stirred up Andrea was that day, until just then when the thought of a quiet and relaxing evening with Daryl washed some of that tension away. In spite of everything that she was feeling inside, Carol felt a rush because she realized—without even a bit of the irony escaping her—how _lucky_ she actually felt to have Daryl there just to make things a little better.

"I'll pack up the dishes and get the book," Carol said. She got up and leaned quickly to peck Daryl on the lips. He seemed surprised by the movement, but then he smiled at her, the corner of his mouth curling up. "You order the ice cream."

He nodded his head.

"Good as done," he said. "Double dessert, comin' right up."


	89. Chapter 89

**AN: Here we are, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Alice had introduced to them both Margaret and Alissa. Daryl didn't know if the women were doctors or nurses, but he knew that they came from Regional, which was apparently a large hospital in their area. Alice hadn't told them much about the women except that they were supportive of Wave Thirty Three and that their presence there was simply practical—they weren't with the project and they had, basically, no ulterior motives. They were just there because Alice had asked them to come. They gave her some extra hands and a couple of pairs of eyes while she was running the tests. When it was all done, they'd be the ones that would transport the samples to the lab at Regional where the tests, apparently, would be run.

Daryl's job was pretty simple in everything. In fact, it almost felt overly simple. All he had to do was hold Carol's hand. That was it. Honestly, he wished that he could do more somehow. He felt like he was pretty useless in the whole scenario.

Daryl watched Alice as she prepared everything, her focus on what she was doing rather than on who was in the room with her. When she spoke, for a while, it was as though she were speaking the wall or the ceiling. She looked at nobody. It was clear to Daryl, though, that she was speaking the two women that were assisting her and they reacted by doing whatever it was she was commanding them to do. They clearly understood everything a great deal more than Daryl did.

"I think we're just about set up here," Alice said, apparently satisfied with all her preparations. She finally looked at Daryl, then, and also at Carol. "Do you guys have any questions for me?"

She'd already walked them through the procedure, step by step, so Daryl was pretty much out of questions. At least he was out of the ones that he figured were practical. He simply shook his head at her to let her know that he had nothing else to ask that he hadn't already pressed her about before.

"Just—one more time," Carol said. "I know I've asked you a billion times, but just one more time. What are the odds that...you know. That things won't go well?"

Alice laughed quietly to herself.

"The hot topic question," Alice said. "It's very low, Carol. I promise. And it's even lower since I've got Margaret and Alissa here to help me. Alissa's only been studying medicine since the turn, but she's very talented and a very quick study. Margaret's been around since before the turn and we've—we've worked together, I don't even know...a dozen times?"

The woman that had been introduced to them as Margaret was possibly ten years Daryl's senior and she laughed at Alice's calculations.

"Maybe a dozen times in the past year or two," Margaret said. "But in the early days? There weren't that many of us around. We worked together a lot."

"Medical teams have had a lot of work to do to rebuild since the turn," Alice said, directing her commentary to Daryl. He must have made a face that he didn't know about in response to the woman's comment. He wouldn't know anything about medical care since the turn. The only doctors he'd known since everything happened were Alice and those who had worked at the prisons and, honestly, he wouldn't be surprised to find out that those working in the prisons weren't really doctors at all.

"You work with babies?" Daryl asked, directing his question toward Margaret.

"I have," Margaret confirmed.

"Are you an OBGYN?" Carol asked.

"I originally worked mostly in the ER," Margaret said. "I was a cardiologist in actuality, but I kept a low key job at a pretty small hospital because they let me work trauma whenever I wanted. They let me pretty much choose what I did. I always meant to get more focused in my career, but the thrill of the pits called to me more than it should have. But—I've delivered some babies."

"And this isn't even half as complicated as a delivery," Alice said quickly. "All I need here is a couple of fluid samples and you're good to go. So Carol? We're going to do the ultrasound and we're going to locate the babies, OK? I'll let you know before I do anything. No surprises. The biggest thing I want you to focus on is staying calm and still. Don't move on me, OK? That's the important part."

Carol confirmed that she understood her role.

"Daryl?" Alice asked, drawing Daryl's attention to her. "You know what your job is?"

"No," Daryl said. "At least—not beyond holdin' her hand and that don't really feel like no kinda job right now."

"It's an important one," Alice said. "Holding her hand and keeping her calm. It's a very important job and you're the best man for it. I'd bet you can do it better than probably anybody else."

"We wanna keep our young'uns, Doc," Daryl offered. He wasn't sure if it was really appropriate to say to the woman, but he wanted to make sure she knew his feelings on the matter.

Alice nodded her head at him.

"I'm sure you do," she said. "And you're going to. Just like always, we're going to do everything we possibly can to make that happen. Can we get started?"

Carol readjusted herself once, stealing the opportunity before they began and she was asked to hold still, and Daryl held her hand and watched everything that was happening. The whole process horrified him more than he cared to admit. He didn't normally think of himself as the kind of person to get woozy, and especially not over anything simple, but he found out he was a lot more nervous about the babies than he expected. He learned, as well, that anything involving making Carol uncomfortable was more difficult for him to handle than he might've imagined. He felt slightly embarrassed because he was so nervous over what he was watching that he wasn't actually sure that he was much comfort to Carol who kept squeezing his hand at intervals but otherwise stayed still and quiet as was requested.

When Margaret was busy packing the vials of liquid—baby pee as Alice had identified it to him—into something that looked like a briefcase to Daryl, and Alissa had stepped away to wash her hands, Alice announced that they were done.

"We're done?" Carol asked.

"All done," Alice confirmed. "I just want to have one more quick look around while we're here but—yep, the hard part is done. Was it that bad?"

"Are the babies OK?" Carol asked, ignoring Alice's question.

"Fine," Alice said. "You can see them. See? Just have a look. It's OK. They're both asleep. There's one and—there's the other. Not moving around."

"That can be bad, can't it?" Daryl asked, nipping at the thumb that he had free. The other still belonged to Carol at the moment and he wasn't going to ask her to relinquish her hold on it until she was good and ready to do so.

Before Daryl could get his answer, the two women who had come to assist Alice took their leave of her. They offered only the quickest of farewells to Carol and Daryl, wishing them luck, and then they took their briefcase and left the small clinic without much of a show. Alice waited until the door was shut behind them and she was back in the progress of cleaning Carol up before she spoke to Daryl to address his concerns.

"As far as the babies being still and not moving around being a bad thing? I guess it could be," Alice said. "Under different circumstances, it could absolutely be a bad thing. But it isn't. Heartbeats are regular. The babies are fine. I don't think they even noticed I was in there. So they're doing well. The cramping Carol felt was in response to her uterus noticing I was in there. There might still be a little throughout the day, but if it's anything serious? I need to know about it. How are you feeling, Mama? Cramping?"

Carol sucked in a deep breath, the first that she'd taken since Alice had begun everything, and let it out slowly. She shook her head.

"No," she said. "There was, but—I honestly feel fine now. I feel OK." She seemed to think about it a moment and the she answered with a little more confidence. "I'm fine. Actually—I'm better than I thought I'd be."

"You're better than Andrea was," Alice offered.

Carol laughed quietly.

"I'm a lot better than Andrea was," Carol said.

"What happened to Andrea?" Daryl asked.

"Nothing happened to her," Alice said. "She was just nervous. _Very_ nervous."

"She cried the whole time," Carol said. "Actually...she was crying when she got here, I think. And when they were escorting her back, she was still crying."

"You're fine, Carol," Alice said, seeming to finish entirely with anything she intended to do with Carol. "You're fine and the babies are fine. But you can always call me if you think there's anything wrong. You know that. You can sit up when you're ready. The dye on your abdomen will take a couple of days to wash off, probably, so don't be surprised if you're pink for a little bit. We like to make sure that we're getting the disinfectant exactly where we want it. The color helps us keep up with that."

"I can handle being pink a lot better than I can handle an infection," Carol said in response.

Alice stepped away from them a moment and continued straightening up and putting the clinic back in order. Carol didn't immediately sit up and Daryl didn't rush her. She could take her time for all he cared. He'd stand there all day and wait on her if that's how long it took for her to get herself together and get ready to go home. Whatever she needed was fine with him.

"Andrea's doing OK," Alice said, picking up the thread from the earlier conversation. Her comment was clearly as much to herself as it was to Carol or Daryl. "Really she is. It's the nature of the project. Solitary confinement gives you time to think. Too much time, honestly. She's allowed some company—a whole lot more than Wild A—but she's still alone a lot. Emotions run away with you after a while." Almost as though she just remembered that they were there, Alice stopped organizing her things and turned to look at Carol and Daryl. She smiled at them. "You two are really lucky, actually. You have each other and you have each other as much and as often as you want. And—you _like_ each other. Don't think that isn't important. Not everybody here can say that."

"I think we more than like each other," Carol offered. She sat up then and Daryl helped her, even though she didn't request his help and probably didn't need it. She hadn't been required to strip down for the whole thing and she rearranged her clothes so that they were properly situated on her body. She sat on the edge of the table for a few moments and Daryl stood beside her, assuming that she wanted to take a moment before she committed to actually getting to her feet. "Would you say that's fair, Daryl?" Carol asked.

"Huh?" Daryl asked. He felt his face run warm. He'd been focusing on the movements of her body. He'd been focusing on what she was doing. He'd forgotten, honestly, to listen to what she was saying. "Didn't hear ya. Sorry."

Carol smiled at him.

"I said—I think we more than like each other," Carol said. "Would you say that's fair? To say that?"

Daryl swallowed. He wasn't used to making declarations of his feelings with an audience. Still, there was no way that he could refuse to say something in response. He glanced at Alice and then back at Carol.

"Reckon you know the answer to that," Daryl said. "You oughta."

Carol laughed to herself.

"We'd make it more official or whatever," Carol said, glancing at Alice to let her know that she was talking to her before she looked back in Daryl's direction. "But they haven't exactly given us that opportunity."

"So I've heard," Alice said. "Still, there's hope. The petition can always be put in."

"For?" Carol asked.

"Marriage," Alice said. "All the rights and privileges that it brings these days."

"In prison communities," Carol added.

Alice hummed and nodded her head.

"It probably wouldn't be much, but if you're serious about it? It could be a title at least. Who knows? Expressing that we have citizens interested in it might be a step in the right direction. It certainly couldn't hurt. Carol—I want you to take it easy today," Alice said. "Take it easy a couple of days, actually. Just go home, put your feet up, and demand that Daryl wait on you a little bit. Eat. Rest. Read a book or something."

Carol put her hand on her belly, but she didn't leave it there for long.

"Do you think there's anything to worry about?" Carol asked. "Honestly? I don't want you to tell me what you think I want to hear. I want you to tell me the truth."

"I think that there's always something to worry about," Alice said. "There are always possibilities that things don't go the way we want them to. However—I don't really think that there's too much of a threat here. The procedure went very well. I'm actually super happy with it. I won't lie to you. I was nervous about doing it. But—I really think it went well. I don't even know how it could've gone any better. I'd just like you to take it easy because I'd rather err on the side of caution. It isn't going to hurt anyone if I write the two of you medical passes for a couple of days and you spend those days taking care of yourself and your babies. Being safe is a helluva lot better than being sorry."

"I gotta say," Daryl tossed in quickly, "I agree with her on that."

"So what do we do?" Carol asked. "Any special orders?"

"Rest," Alice said. "Relax. Enjoy yourself. Nothing strenuous. Nothing that's really going to tire you out. Just take it easy."

Carol nodded her head and thanked Alice. She finally eased herself off the table and stood on her feet. Daryl offered Alice his hand and she took it and shook it. He thanked her, sincerely, for taking care of them. He wasn't happy about the procedure being required, but he knew enough to know that it wasn't her doing. She was just doing what she was ordered to do. And Daryl, for his part, was sincerely thankful that she at least cared enough to do that with the upmost care possible.

Alice filled out the medical leave passes and handed both of them directly to Carol. Carol glanced at them, reading them, and then she tugged Daryl's hand to drag him in the direction of the door. Alice called to them, catching their attention just before they stepped outside.

"Something wrong?" Carol asked, turning back with her hand already on the door.

"I meant to say in my orders—no sex for a couple of days," Alice said. A smile spread across her face. "You'll just have to come up with some other way to occupy your time."

Carol laughed quietly, clearly relieved. She'd apparently already gotten concerned that it was going to be something serious. Daryl laughed too, finding that his own chest flooded with relief as well.

"Ain't gonna be easy," Daryl offered, "but I guess we can give it our best shot."


	90. Chapter 90

**AN: Here we are, another chapter. According to my plans (this story is plotted out already) we'll be getting a little more information about the project soon and we have what I think is an interesting plot point (twist?) coming up soon. It might even be unexpected, but I'm not sure. You guys are pretty good at guessing things.**

 **At any rate, I hope you enjoy. This one is a little fluffy after the last chapter. Let me know what you think!**

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"You don't have to wait on me hand and foot," Carol said when Daryl came into the bedroom with his arms full. He made something of a hissing noise meant to scold her when she started out of the bed to try and help him.

"You gonna make me drop it 'cause I'm worried about you gettin' outta the damn bed," Daryl said. He finished his journey and Carol leaned up to take the cups he was hugging against his chest so he didn't spill the contents. He put the plate on the bed and then he climbed across the bed, much like an excited child might, to get back to his spot against the pillows. "Fresh," he said. "They just come out the oven an' that milk's cold."

Carol looked at the cookies that Daryl had arranged on the plate. There were enough cookies piled there for both of them to eat themselves sick, and that would be even if they hadn't already eaten the large meal that Daryl had ordered to be delivered to them.

"You didn't tell me you bake," Carol said. "I'm impressed. I never would've believed that—that I'd find a man who would...who would take _such_ good care of me _and_ would bake me cookies." Carol saw Daryl's cheeks tinge pink with the compliment.

She knew, by now, that Daryl loved compliments, especially from her. He thrived on them. The praise made Daryl want to continuously go above and beyond any expectation that she might have for him—even the expectations that he'd set for himself—because he always wanted more of it. Carol, for her part, tried to give him all that he could stand. She praised him for everything she could think of from the kindnesses he did for her to hanging up his towel after he'd taken a shower.

She'd continue to do it, too, because she knew what it was to feel appreciated. Daryl was teaching her that. He simply did it in his own way—a way that meant so much to Carol—and she did it in her own way because she knew how much the verbal affirmation meant to him.

"Found you all that," Daryl teased. "An' in a prison, too."

"A prison for wild animals," Carol said with a snort. She reached for one of the cookies and tasted it. She had to admit, it was delicious and it was just what the doctor ordered—literally. Alice had put in the order for their king-sized dinner herself. "These are good. You did amazing."

"Don't go gettin' too excited," Daryl said. "They brung me the dough. All I had to do was put 'em on the pan an' make sure they ain't burned in the oven."

Carol laughed to herself.

"Don't sell yourself short," Carol said. "You'd be surprised how many people couldn't get that right. Now—where were we?"

"You sure you ain't tired of it?" Daryl asked.

Carol smiled to herself.

As soon as Daryl had her "safely" back at the house and settled in bed, he'd commanded her to stay there. Then he'd basically gone shopping, from what Carol could tell, though she was sure that they were more than happy to hand over the things that he'd asked for. Carol hadn't known what he was doing, and she hadn't had any expectations about what he might return with, but he'd still surprised her.

Daryl had gone in search of a few of the generic puzzles to keep them entertained, but while he was there he'd picked up some other things that seemed to be his treasures for the moment. He'd come back with several books. And they weren't just any books. He'd requested several small books that were generic books for very small children with pictures and big print words, and he'd requested several baby books.

While Carol had been soaking in the tub, relaxing under Alice's and Daryl's orders, Daryl had apparently been reading. What he'd discovered, or at least the thing that fascinated him the most, was that there was some proof that their babies might actually be able to hear his voice. It was reasonable to him, of course, that the little ones might hear Carol's voice, but he hadn't thought about the fact that they might be able to hear him. He'd insisted, then, that they spend some of their time, while Carol was relaxing in bed, getting the twins acquainted with his voice.

Carol wasn't sure if the little ones were old enough to hear him, and in fact she was pretty sure they couldn't, but she didn't dare discourage Daryl.

And Daryl, for his part, had decided that the babies might not mind learning about themselves, so he was reading his baby book aloud to them, picking out the parts that interested him to share with Carol while he taught her what was going on inside her body and taught the babies what was happening to them.

Carol picked the plate of cookies up and rested against the pillows. She put the plate between their bodies and patted the blanket to let Daryl know that he could get comfortable again.

"I'm not tired of it," Carol said. "Let's go."

"You remember where we were?" Daryl asked, thumbing through the pages. "Lost my page..."

"I believe you were at—twelve weeks? But—let's skip ahead," Carol said.

"That's cheatin'," Daryl said with a laugh.

"But we're ahead of the book," Carol said. "So we'll skip ahead. Go to—I think 15 weeks? Start there, Daryl."

Daryl sighed at her.

"OK, then," he said, flipping through the pages. Carol laughed to herself.

"If it means that much to you," Carol said. "You can pick back up at twelve."

"Nah," Daryl said. "Fifteen it is. You ready?"

"Ready when you are," Carol said. "You want your milk?"

"Pass it to me?" Daryl asked.

Carol picked up his cup from the nightstand and passed it to him. He held it with one hand and balanced the book on his arm while he found the page. When he was satisfied with his location, he rested his head somewhat against Carol like he'd been doing before—determined that the closer he was to the babies the better the chance they'd have of hearing him—and then he started to read to Carol once more.

"At this point the baby is the size of an apple," Daryl said. "You reckon they both the size of apples or that means them put together?"

Carol hummed to herself.

"Maybe they're both the size of small apples," Carol said. "Does it say what size apple?"

"No," Daryl said. "An' apples come in a lotta different sizes. I mean you can get some pretty big apples. And then crabapples—they don't get too big."

"Maybe they're just small apples," Carol said.

"Baby's legs an' arms are growin' now and they're no longer the small buds that you could barely see before. Now they're gettin' stronger and more developed. They movin' all around in there. You can feel it?" Daryl asked.

"A little bit," Carol said. "I'm pretty sure. I think?" She laughed to herself. "I really don't know. I don't know if I feel them or if I just want to feel them."

"It don't say yet when I'ma feel 'em," Daryl informed her.

"We haven't gotten there yet," Carol said.

"Says they can see light," Daryl said. He sat up, almost tipping his milk. He caught it before it spilled and picked the glass up. He drank down half of it quickly like he wanted to get it out of the way. The milk was more trouble than it was worth. "We got a flashlight?"

"I don't think so," Carol said.

"We gotta order one," Daryl said. "You think they'll give us a flashlight, right? I mean—that ain't a weapon."

"What do you need it for?" Carol asked.

"Says if we shine one on the babies, they'll see it," Daryl said. "Says they might even move away from the light. I'ma order a flashlight tomorrow with breakfast."

"Just tell them what you want it for," Carol said. "I'm sure they'll let you have one. At least for a little while."

Daryl hummed at her, lost for a moment in scouring the page he was on for anything else that he might want to tell her about. He wasn't a fast reader, so Carol sat back and gave him the time that he needed to pick through the words that he was reading with a great deal of care. At the end of it all, they'd both been given three days to take off and spend just as they were spending their time now—together and doing as little as possible beyond bonding with one another and the hopeful future additions to their household.

Carol thought she'd hate being forced to stay mostly off her feet, but she wasn't actually suffering too much. Daryl was keeping her greatly entertained and she was enjoying the quiet time with him. It felt like they were alone and, for once, it felt like they were in their house because that's where they wanted to be—not because they were prisoners. They could leave, honestly, if they wanted to and go for a walk in the streets, but neither of them really had anywhere they wanted to be.

They were on vacation together.

"Says here you might be feelin' 'em movin' soon," Daryl said. "Because you was skinny anyway, you might feel 'em sooner, it says." He smiled to himself and Carol smiled in response.

"What?" Carol asked.

"Says it's good to talk to 'em," Daryl said. "Good to read to 'em. Good practice. Promotes—it says here—promotes the early development of language skills. We'll keep readin' to 'em and they gonna come out damn geniuses."

Carol laughed to herself.

"Then we'll just keep reading to them," Carol said. "I wasn't going to say it, but—I think they like it."

Daryl looked at her and furrowed his brow.

"You serious?" He asked. "Or you jerkin' me around?"

"I'm serious," Carol said. "I feel—so relaxed right now and...I just feel good. I think that's a sign that they like it." She swallowed. In a past life that she'd lived, she'd been careful not to talk too much about the baby she'd carried. Daryl, though, didn't seem to ever be annoyed with it. He promoted chatter about the babies. He enjoyed it. And, more than anything, he liked the reminder that he was a part of it. Carol wanted him to be a part of it. "I think—they really like having their Daddy read to them."

The expression on Daryl's face immediately erased any concern that Carol might have that he'd find such a statement silly. He leaned forward and kissed her and Carol wished she had the ability to think of a million such statements to shower him with simply because of the emotion that came through in the kiss.

"I like you being relaxed," Daryl said when they pulled apart.

"Do you?" Carol asked, raising her eyebrows at him.

"Alice said that was the most important thing," Daryl said. "That you relax. She said we weren't likely to have any trouble, but if you were tense it would only make things worse. It would only make our odds worse. I like hearin' that you're relaxed because it means—we don't have that much to worry about."

Carol swallowed and nodded her head.

"I'm fine," Carol said. "And—I think the babies are fine. I feel good. I'm—to be honest? I'm more worried about the results of the test, now, than I am about anything else. It's over and done with and I'm taking it easy. Just like Alice said. I think it's all going to be fine. It's just the results we have to worry about now."

Daryl shook his head at her.

"You don't gotta worry about that," Daryl said. "Shouldn't worry about it. The worryin' is bad no matter what you're worryin' about. But—you don't gotta worry about the results because they don't matter."

"No?" Carol asked.

"No," Daryl said. "We know what we need to know. Got two kids. All the parts are there and—even if they weren't? We'd figure it out. Plenty a' people's missin' parts. Got parts that don't work quite right. Don't matter at all. We'll figure it out. Whatever the tests say? We'll just—figure it out, right? I mean—and that's just assumin' that they say they ain't as perfect as we already know 'em to be."

Carol smiled to herself. Her stomach churned slightly at the thought that the tests might tell them something they weren't prepared for or might mean something that they weren't ready to face, but she quickly reminded herself not to worry.

Daryl was right. The worry was bad. And whatever it was, if it was anything at all, they'd handle it together.

Carol nodded her head at Daryl. She took a swallow of her milk and picked up another cookie.

"You're done with week fifteen or there's more we should know there?" Carol asked.

"Not too much more that's interesting," Daryl said.

"Sixteen?" Carol asked.

"You're sure you're not sick of this?" Daryl asked.

"Are you sick of it?" Carol asked. Daryl shook his head. "Sixteen, then," Carol said. "We might even make it to delivery before bed."


	91. Chapter 91

**AN: Here we are, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Samirah didn't normally pull people out of work, but with Michonne doing little more than recording inventory at the warehouse, Samirah thought they could do without Michonne for a little while and Samirah needed her help.

Samirah had read Kreegan's book. Everyone had if they'd been inside safe zones since the turn or shortly after. It was practically assigned reading for the times and, like all the classics that had gone widely read before it, it was a pretty dark representation of humanity or, rather, the loss of humanity.

Samirah knew who Wild A was according to the texts. She knew what the woman had become and she still believed her a woman. She didn't believe, as Kreegan seemed to have believed, that she'd somehow become an animal or something much worse.

Samirah understood, too, that Milton needed to recreate Kreegan's findings to a certain degree in order to truly dispute them. He'd chosen Andrea to be his Wild A and, for that, Andrea had to be the one that they took as close to the darkness as they could get her without losing her completely.

It was systematic, carefully planned and executed, psychological torture and it was Andrea's lot whether she'd asked for it or not.

The question was how much could she take? How would she react? What would happen to her at every step?

It was Milton's job to study everything about the woman while he also simultaneously managed the other pieces of the project that Samirah understood only on the surface level. Still, Samirah wasn't under the impression that Milton didn't care for Andrea. He didn't want to torture her. He wasn't heartless, even though some might mistake his lack of outward emotional expression for a lack of feeling. Milton didn't want to hurt Andrea in the same ways that Kreegan had hurt Wild A. Whether or not he acknowledged it, Samirah felt that Milton was aware, too, that the child that Andrea carried was biologically his child. He may not have warm fatherly feelings toward the child—Samirah had no way of knowing if he did—but he didn't want to harm it. Milton didn't want to harm anyone caught up in his experiment. For that reason, he tweaked Kreegan's experiment. He manipulated every facet of it. He decided what enough was and what was too much. For that reason, he had everything about Andrea carefully monitored to make sure that she didn't go so deep into her own darkness that they couldn't drag her back out again.

For that reason, he'd allowed Samirah to take Michonne with her in the middle of the day when she had to make an unexpected house call. Samirah's surprise and unannounced arrival to the house had the potential to throw Andrea into some kind of fit of concern that was unnecessary and undesirable.

"I'm not here for Andrea," Samirah told Michonne as they walked toward the house. "I just need to get the files that Milton sent me to get from his office. All I want you to do is make sure she's calm. Make sure she realizes that it's not a trick. I just need to get them for Milton."

"I can keep her calm," Michonne assured her. "But—you'll never get into Milton's office. He keeps it locked."

"That might be a problem," Samirah agreed. "Except Milton gave me his keys."

She laughed to herself when Michonne found some humor in the situation. They mounted the steps and Samirah unlocked the door. As soon as she stepped inside, she saw Andrea standing with her back against the wall, her hands displayed in the normal stance they were asked to take to show that they weren't holding any sort of weapon. Standing in a similar place in her home, with no more weapons than she was holding now, Andrea had once been attacked and it showed in her demeanor.

"Is it the baby?" Andrea asked immediately, almost on the verge of tears in the short amount of time that it had probably been since she'd seen Samirah and Michonne coming from one of her windows.

Samirah shook her head and let Michonne into the house. Michonne went straight toward Andrea to start to soothe her.

"I'm not here about you," Samirah promised. "I'm just here to get some things from Milton's office that he asked me to get. That's all. I've got to copy over some files."

"Do you have the test results?" Andrea asked. "Is it the baby? Is he OK?"

"I don't know anything about the results," Samirah said. "Alice would be the one to tell you about those. Not me. As far as I know? There aren't even any results yet. I'm just here to copy a few files."

Andrea visibly relaxed. Samirah didn't know if it was her words, the fact that she hadn't so much as touched Andrea and was already locking the door behind her without concern, or if it was the fact that Michonne was already kneading at Andrea's muscles to try to force her to relax.

"Milton's office is locked," Andrea said. "Nobody but Milton goes in there."

"I have the key," Samirah assured her. "Milton gave it to me. And—he told me to remind you that Carol isn't coming today so you need to order lunch. I'm going to leave Michonne here. She'll leave when they pick up the lunch plates."

Andrea nodded at her.

Making sure to speak to Andrea, instead of Michonne, because Samirah didn't want to contribute to the overall sensation that Andrea was either incapable of reason or communication—even if it might sometimes be part of the way they were scripted to deal with her—Samirah continued to address her words to Andrea and remind her that, if she'd forgotten, she was a logical human being.

"Where will I find Milton's office?" Samirah asked.

"At the top of the stairs," Andrea said. "Go to your right. It's—the second door? I don't remember exactly. I didn't ever count the doors. Second door, I think."

"Thank you," Samirah said. "You can do—whatever you were doing."

Samirah started up the stairs. By the time she reached the top, she could hear Andrea talking to Michonne as Michonne engaged her in a conversation about the baby. She prattled off some list of numbers, but Samirah didn't listen too closely to what she was saying. She was keeping a diary. Milton already knew that and he allowed it. He thought it was a good thing for keeping her darkness away and, honestly, for having even more proof that Andrea was hardly an animal. What animal in the history of the world—besides the human being itself—had ever felt the need to chronicle its experiences?

Milton believed in locking every door in his "space". Samirah learned that quickly when she'd tried to unlock every locked door that she found with the keys provided to her. Even the bathroom was locked. When she found the office, Samirah closed the door behind her and she sat down at the computer. She moved the mouse around to wake up the device and pulled the list from her pocket where Milton had written his requests.

They'd been in meetings all morning. A meeting was called for him with the Governor this afternoon that he hadn't been expecting. He wouldn't have time to run home, as he'd intended, and pick up his files. He needed someone he trusted to bring them. Apparently Milton trusted Samirah. Of course, Samirah was one of the few people who worked with Milton on a regular basis that believed in the importance of Wave Thirty Three quite the same way that Milton believed in it.

When the computer woke up, Milton was already logged in. There was no need to protect the fact that he had access to every server that even existed when he protected his office so carefully.

Samirah plugged in the drive that she'd been given and followed Milton's instructions to open the folder where she'd find the files that he needed. She picked through the long list of files—most of which had cryptic names that she couldn't even begin to understand—and moved them one by one to the drive that Milton had given her.

It wasn't her job to ask what was in the files. For all she knew, Milton could have her copying overly detailed grocery lists. It didn't matter. She was there only to get him what he needed while he prepared for his next meeting.

Samirah made quick work of transferring the files over, but as she scanned the titles of the documents in the folder, a few of them caught her eye. She stopped and hovered the mouse over one of the documents that was titled "Wild-born rehabilitation and relocation".

Samirah's stomach twisted.

There was so much that they didn't know about the project. Even though she was working with Milton on it and even though she was practically his right hand in the whole thing, the fact remained that she was largely in the dark. Milton was the man behind all of this. He made the orders and he asked the questions. The rest of them simply obeyed.

Together, if they were lucky, they'd save the lives of many prisoners. They couldn't save all of them, but they could save more than if they did nothing.

Everything that had to be done to get to that point, though, was simply a means to an end. They didn't have to like it—Milton himself didn't like it—but it had to be done. Milton had to prove, once and for all, that Kreegan's findings were false. He had to re-write science, to some degree, for those who were living. He had to prove that Wilds were, in fact, people and that they could be rehabilitated. They could be returned to regular social standing. They could function just the same as everyone else. He had to prove that "once wild" meant nothing.

And he had to prove it through whatever means necessary.

Maybe Milton's lack of outward emotion was what made him the right man for the job. Maybe his ability to keep from crumbling under his feelings about things and his ability to approach everything from a strictly practical and scientific position was what was going to save so many people.

Because just reading the title of a single document and letting her imagination run away with the possible things that it could mean made Samirah's breathing pick up and it made her stomach churn.

They promised them all that they'd keep their children. At the end of it all, as long as they did all that was asked of them and submitted without question, they would keep their lives and their children. As long as they followed the rules and performed the tasks laid out for them, they'd be given a future that involved freedom, control of the very community that they were residing in and building, happiness, and a full return to citizenship.

And they would keep their children.

Samirah looked around her. She knew she was alone in Milton's office. She'd left the door unlocked, but she would've heard Andrea or Michonne if they'd entered the room. There was nobody around. There was nobody looking over her shoulder—even if she couldn't shake the feeling of surveillance that followed her from the earliest days after the turn when the Government in place at that time was like an all-seeing eye.

Samirah double-clicked the document and scanned her eyes over the text. The writing was clearly done by Milton or someone as methodical as Milton. Everything written there was taken down without a single emotion coming through in the words.

The more she read, the stranger Samirah felt. Her stomach twisted and knotted itself up.

It was all there—every last detail—and Milton had been holding onto it for all this time.

Samirah heard something downstairs. The door opened and closed. Someone was bringing lunch. Downstairs, Michonne and Andrea were eating. They'd be given time to finish their meal and then someone would come and pick up their dishes to be cleaned. The arrival of the meal reminded Samirah of the hour and reminded her that Milton would be expecting her arrival so he could prepare before his meeting.

There wasn't time for her to read everything.

She closed the document, sat there for a moment staring at it, and then stood up to get better access to the clip of her own keys that she kept hanging from her belt—the so-called "keys to the city" that gave her access to everything she was allowed to have access to.

Hanging from her keys was her own thumb drive. She checked Milton's list once more, made sure that she had everything he'd requested on his drive, and then she ejected it. She quickly replaced it with her own and transferred the document she'd been reading over to her own drive. She ejected it and returned her keys to their normal location before she closed out Milton's files and left his office just as she'd found it.

Samirah was careful to lock the door as Milton normally did, and on her way out of the house she said goodbye to Michonne and Andrea both before she reminded them that Michonne would be going back to work after lunch. She locked them inside as she left the house and double timed her steps back to the area just inside the gates where she'd left her car.

She'd read the rest of the document later, but she already knew that she'd spend the whole trip back to work running over what she already knew in her mind. It would take all she could do not to ask Milton why he'd kept the government secret from everyone and how long he'd intended not to share it with anyone.


	92. Chapter 92

**AN: Here we are, another chapter here.**

 **This chapter has pieces of Kreegan's experiments and theories. Therefore there's a warning for some pretty dark stuff—rape, abortion, etc. By now you probably know enough about Kreegan's experiment to imagine, but I'm giving you a warning that some of it's being discussed in this chapter.**

 **I hope you enjoy (for what it's worth)! Let me know what you think!**

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"You want a snack or something?" Samirah asked Alice as soon as they'd gotten the customary greetings out of the way and the brunette sank down into the couch cushions in Samirah's apartment.

"No," Alice said. "You still smoke?"

"When I need to," Samirah said. "And tonight? I need to."

She got up and brought over an ashtray that she put in front of Alice. It was one that she'd found somewhere. Maybe she'd gotten it at a store. Maybe someone had given it to her. It was an ashtray that advertised a theme park that was long gone—a theme park that Samirah had never even been to before.

"Drink?" Samirah asked.

"Please," Alice said. "I need to drink until I don't know my name."

"Maybe not that much," Samirah responded, headed toward her fridge. The amount of beer that she'd stocked up, though, didn't exactly support the idea that she didn't intend for both of them to drink until they forgot who they were. "All I have is beer."

"Perfect," Alice said. "I'll take two to start."

Samirah laughed to herself. She got two cans out of the fridge, but they weren't both intended for Alice—at least not to start. Samirah handed Alice a beer and took a seat next to her on the couch so that they could share the ashtray. As a sign of comradery, Alice produced a pack of cigarettes that she rested on the table between them and Samirah helped herself. She didn't smoke. Not really. But sometimes she did.

"You sounded panicked on the phone," Samirah said, taking a draw from her cigarette.

"I talked to Milton," Alice said. "Nine times out of ten? That leads to panic and at least one existential crisis."

Samirah laughed to herself.

"I haven't talked to him since lunch time," Samirah said. "And honestly, that was just to tell him that I brought his jump drive and keys back. That's what I needed to talk to you about. I might've done something illegal."

Alice cocked an eyebrow at her.

"You might've done something illegal, or you did do something illegal?" Alice asked.

"I'm pretty sure it was illegal," Samirah said. She shrugged her shoulders. She knew that her apartment wasn't bugged. She'd searched the whole thing over with a detector. Her home was clean. She also knew that she could trust Alice. Alice wasn't exactly above going against the law herself—especially when she had a good feeling she wouldn't get caught. "I jacked some of Milton's files and now I've got to figure out how to tell him I did it."

Alice laughed to herself.

"I mean—are we talking top secret?" Alice asked.

"Pretty top secret," Samirah responded. "I never had access to them before. I know you don't have access to them."

"Shit," Alice spat. "Just tell him. I mean—files like he'd turn you in or like he'd turn a blind eye?"

"Don't know," Samirah admitted.

"Will it shut down the project?" Alice asked.

"No," Samirah responded.

"Then he won't turn you in," Alice said. "If it doesn't compromise Wave Thirty Three, I don't think Milton really cares. He's got a one track mind. You know that. He's entirely focused on Wave Thirty Three right now."

"I didn't mean to steal your show," Samirah said, trying to back away from accidentally dominating the conversation. "What'd you have to tell me?"

"Your illegal activity takes precedence over my flipping a shit over something I can't change," Alice said. "What'd you steal?"

"Files," Samirah said. "Just—files. Just information."

"About the project?" Alice asked.

"Sort of," Samirah said. "It was a knee-jerk reaction, Al. I was saving these files for Milton's meeting with the Governor. I copied them over and then I was just scrolling through the folder. Nothing really meant that much to me, but then I read the title of this—of this one file. I thought it was going to be something related to the project. I was prepared to—I don't even know what I was prepared to do. Confront Milton about his lies? About keeping secret what he was probably sworn to keep secret. Then I opened the damn thing and I realized it wasn't what I thought it was at all."

"Bad news?" Alice asked.

Samirah shrugged her shoulders.

"I don't know if it's bad or good or—just there," Samirah said. "I haven't spent enough time with it to figure that out."

"Share?" Alice asked. Samirah gave her a look and Alice laughed. "If they hang us over the shit we've done? I'm first in the noose. I falsified documents. I've been cheating the system since before the project was in place. I don't make it out of this alive—not if they decide to start killing us." Alice got up from the couch and went to the kitchen. When she returned, she carried two beers. She'd finished her first, so Samirah drank most of her first down quickly to keep up with the woman.

"I'll share," Samirah said, "but maybe you should go first. You sounded like you were about ready to throw in the towel when you called."

"Maybe because I am," Alice said. She shook her head and focused on the cigarette that she lit for a moment. "I don't know how much more of this I can do. I don't know how deep in the bullshit I can go before I just—pull the plug."

"You can't leave, Al," Samirah said. "None of us can."

"I don't know if I can stay, either," Alice said. "Where do I draw the line between—my belief in the project and my need to protect myself? I'm going to lose my fucking mind and Mel can't handle but so many crazy people at one time."

"We have to have someone who cares," Samirah said. "No matter what you have to do, at least they know you care. Do you know how much of a comfort that has to be to them? To know that you care? Can you imagine some of the other assholes we've seen in there?"

"Does it matter if I care?" Alice asked. "Does it matter if it kills me to do what I have to do? Fucking hell, Samirah—I have to sleep at night."

"What's wrong?" Samirah asked.

"Kreegan," Alice responded. "May he rot in hell."

"He already is," Samirah said. "What special way did he find to curse us this time?"

Alice groaned to herself.

"His whole damn study—it's a nightmare," Alice said.

"So we've seen," Samirah said.

"You don't know the half of it," Alice said. "How much of his shit have you read, Sam? Really read?"

"The book," Samirah admitted. "And I skimmed that because it was like reading Stephen King without the benefit of knowing it was fiction."

Alice hummed at her and nodded her head. She took a long drink from the can of beer and then a drag off her cigarette before she spoke again.

"First kid that he got from Wild A was from an insemination," Alice said. "Wild A and another unnamed Wild that they had—I don't know—somewhere."

"There were two, weren't there?" Samirah asked.

"You want to know the story, or you don't?" Alice responded. Samirah waved her on.

"First kid was born a mutant—Kreegan's word, not mine. I never saw the kid or even any of the documentation surrounding his so-called defects. Kreegan studied the kid—well, theoretically thoroughly. He determined that the mutation was a genetic mutation. Some—some different mutation or other of the virus," Alice said. "So—the only logical thing to do was to destroy the child and carry on with the experiment."

"The second child," Samirah offered. Alice nodded.

"The second child," Alice said. "But he experimented with this one—his words again, because I swear you don't want to know my opinions on his shit. It's all sick, Sam. He was telling the world it was the Wilds that were sick, but it was him...you know that? He was a twisted son-of-a-bitch."

"What happened with the second child, Al?" Samirah urged.

"He impregnated her himself," Alice said. She laughed to herself, but it wasn't fueled by genuine humor. Samirah could tell that. Alice's focus on the beer she was quickly draining and the cigarette that she was smoking like it provided oxygen was all that was keeping her from being upset at the moment. She wore that clearly on her expression. "That's all he really said about it. He impregnated her himself—directly—to ensure that he controlled all aspects of the pregnancy. You know what the hell he did. You know she..."

Samirah reached her hand out and touched Alice's shoulder. She shook her head at her when Alice looked at her.

"There was another baby," Samirah offered. "And it was his."

"And it wasn't a mutant," Alice said. "Kreegan's word..."

"Not yours," Samirah filled in. Alice nodded her head. The tears she'd been trying to choke back were showing up now, though they weren't escaping her lower lashes just yet. "What does it mean for us? Andrea's already pregnant with Milton's child. He's running both pregnancies with her as his offspring."

"Because he's got a whole other community to test the rest of the theory," Alice said. She wiped her nose with her sleeve and Samirah got up to bring her a box of tissue. Alice breathed out a thanks to her as she accepted the box and blew her nose. "Um—see...the problem is that with Kreegan? You're pissed because he created all this scientific fact off of—off of an experiment that any idiot can see is wrong and incomplete on so many levels. And now what he said is just fact, you know? It's just—the law of the land. For Milton to undo it, though, he's got to have such a wide-scale experiment. He's got to be more thorough just to say that maybe Kreegan didn't have a fucking clue what he was talking about."

"I know all of this, Al," Samirah said. "I have since the beginning. You have too."

Alice nodded her head.

"Yeah—but—Kreegan? His so-called fact states that the genetic abnormality of the kid he called a mutant was caused by being Wild. Two Wilds make a Wild genetically, according to him. So—these Wilds could just be producing other generations of Wilds. It's in the blood. It's in their genetics. Their DNA. And maybe we don't pick it all up via testing, but it certainly gives us some ideas before all these little Wild babies are born and we find out then that they're Wild," Alice said.

"And the order is to do away with any of the babies that test positive for being Wild in utero," Samirah said. Alice nodded.

"But since Kreegan's genetic theory was just some half-baked pile of shit," Alice said, "it means that any genetic abnormality is means for suspicion and the pregnancies must be terminated. It doesn't matter what the abnormality is—we don't know for certain that anything proves they'll be Wild, but we also don't know that it doesn't. So we have to—what did Milton say his orders were? We have to err on the side of caution."

Samirah nodded.

"Yeah," she said. "I know. Have any of them come back abnormal?"

"Nothing's come back at all," Alice said. "Not yet. I guess I'm just—horrified over even thinking about it. Just imagining it makes me—it makes me sick, Sam."

"Yeah. I understand that," Samirah said. "And I know that you don't want to do that. But Al? If you have to terminate the pregnancies? You can do that. I know you. You can do that and—you'll...you'll figure it out. You'll figure out how to handle it. You'll figure out what to say. I know you. You're good at that. You're good at connecting with people. And that's what they are, right? They're people."

"They're people," Alice echoed. She wiped at her nose with the tissues again and Samirah got up from the couch. She tested the weight of Alice's drink and then she went into the kitchen to return with two more beers. It wouldn't be the first time that she'd had to call Melodye to come get her partner, and she knew that Melodye wouldn't mind. Sometimes she appreciated the time off from being a psychiatrist. Samirah put the beer down on the table in front of Alice and drained the last of her first beer. She had some catching up to do. "You know that's not the worst part, right?" Alice said after a moment.

"You mean there's something worse than the forced termination of pregnancies that—that these poor people were practically forced into in the first place?" Samirah asked. "I'm not sure I want to know, to be honest."

Kreegan's findings suggested that Wilds would always produce Wilds—at least with other Wilds," Alice said.

"Right," Samirah responded.

"If Andrea successfully produces a child without a genetic abnormality, it proves only that Wilds can produce non-Wilds when their partner is non-Wild. Which is what Kreegan already stated to be true. If some of the Wilds have non-Wild babies? It proves that Kreegan's theory was, at least, poorly created. It proves he lacked evidence," Alice said.

"Right," Samirah agreed, pushing the woman to continue.

"Until then? If any of the Wilds produce—if they have..." Alice stopped and sucked in a breath. She closed her eyes to center herself. "I have to turn them in if the pregnancy is terminated," Alice said. "They haven't decided, but they're either going to move them back to the prisons or they're going to sterilize them. Make sure that they're not producing more Wild offspring."

"Most of the prisons are shutting down," Samirah said quickly.

"And you and I both know that they're never making it back to them anyway," Alice said. "They want me to sterilize them—and then they'll figure out what they want to do with them."

"Fuck," Samirah muttered. "I thought they'd wait until the whole experiment was run. I thought they'd wait until Milton presented his facts."

"The Government doesn't want to take the chance of having even more Wilds than we have now at the end of it all," Alice said. "I asked. It's non-negotiable. And those are some documents that I can't falsify. They made sure of that. I just get one copy of the results and the orders—not the originals. Not the only copies."

"Shit," Samirah responded. "Drink up. Have all that you want. You can crash here tonight if Mel doesn't want to come get you."

Alice laughed to herself.

"Mel's coming," Alice said. "Still—I plan to get shit-faced. I just—need to not remember who the hell I am or...what I've become. What they're making me become. Just for a little while."

"You're not becoming anything," Samirah said.

"A monster," Alice said.

Samirah shook her head at the brunette.

"A person who believes in these people," Samirah said. "A person who believes in them enough to try to save them—even if it means having to do some horrible things along the way."

"We'll still lose them," Alice said.

"Some of them, we might," Samirah said. "But—we knew that from the beginning. The means to an end."

"The needs of the many outweigh the needs of a few," Alice said. "Isn't that what they say?"

"We save who we can," Samirah said. "It's better that than—than losing them all."

"We fucking save who we can," Alice said, acting like she was angry with the beer can in her hand for a second. "The rest? I guess they would've died anyway. When the prisons closed. I guess there's that."

"There's that," Samirah said. She sucked in a breath and let it out. "My news is almost good news in comparison to yours."

"I could use some happy news," Alice said. She belched and excused herself, helping herself to another of her cigarettes before she offered one to Samirah and lit it for her when she accepted it between her lips.

"The Wild born babies?" Samirah said. "The ones that were captured and brought in?"

"I remember them," Alice said.

"Well then you remember that we were told they were dead, right?" Samirah asked.

Alice laughed to herself, that same nervous laugh that had a tendency to escape her whenever things were just a bit too much.

"Seems like I remember hearing something about that," Alice said, her words practically dripping with sarcasm. "Killed is more like it. Or terminated. Destroyed. Those seem to be preferred words when it's done in the name of protecting us all from all the vicious Wilds—even if they're just infants and toddlers."

"You would think that's what happened to them," Samirah said. "But that's not the truth. And I'm not really sure if it changes anything or how it changes anything—because I haven't had the time to sleep on it—but it turns out they're alive, Al."

"Alive?" Alice asked, raising an eyebrow at Samirah. Samirah nodded.

"It's all in the document," Samirah said. "The one that I stole. They're alive and re-homed."

"That's impossible," Alice said. "They don't have any files."

Samirah hummed and nodded.

"It's because they were given new identities," Samirah said. "The whole Wild-born thing was a bit of a stigma and it turns out that they were the original pieces to the test to see if Wilds really could be assimilated. Nature versus nurture and what have you. They stopped using their tags and gave them identities. They're in the system, but not as what we thought they were."

"They're not dead?" Alice asked.

Samirah shook her head.

"At least, not all of them are," Samirah said. "It's all there in the document. They're all there."


	93. Chapter 93

**AN: Here we are, another chapter here. More to come, of course.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"Did I miss anything important?" Alice asked, walking into the clinic and putting down the weighty duffel bag she'd been carrying over her shoulder while she'd made rounds.

"I've set up two appointments for tomorrow," Carol said. "One is a 'might be pregnant' and the other is a checkup."

"Checkup something's wrong or checkup it's time for a checkup?" Alice asked.

"Just time," Carol said. "Also—mail and...a special delivery came."

Carol gathered up the bundle of mail that had been delivered to them—at least one thing was hand delivered to the clinic every day by the same person who seemed at least a little bit nervous that he was in a community filled to the brim with Wilds, even if he didn't realize that Carol, who he talked to daily, was one of the almost mythological creatures—and passed it over, along with the envelope that Carol had to sign for from the other delivery man, to the brunette who took it and carried it with her while she settled down in her chair and logged back into her computer.

Alice took her time getting around to picking through the pile, and the mail held little interest for Carol, so Carol started to empty out the duffel bag and take inventory of its contents so that she could refresh the items for the next time that Alice went out on her rounds.

"Fucking hell," Alice grumbled, catching Carol's attention.

"Something wrong?" Carol asked, turning her attention to the woman who was staring at an envelope like it might hold something like a court subpoena.

"Andrea's test results," Alice said. She sucked in a breath and let it out before she started to work her finger under the flap of the envelope. "That was the special delivery. Confidential so they at least have to have a signature."

"It's not too confidential when they left it with me," Carol said.

"I guess they figured it didn't matter," Alice said. "Not as long as they did their job. Shit—let's have a look."

Alice unfolded the paper and Carol watched her face. Her brows were drawn up tight as she read quickly across the page to find the information that most mattered to her. Carol knew the news, before she even asked, when she saw Alice sink back into her chair and she saw the muscles of her face relax.

"Good news?" Carol asked.

Alice laughed to herself.

"Baby Mamet got a clean bill of genetic health," Alice said. "Thank God."

Carol's stomach twisted. She could clearly identify the collision of the conflicting emotions inside of her. On the one hand, she was happy for Andrea and relieved. Soon Alice would strike out, no doubt, across the community to tell Andrea that her baby was healthy. On the other hand, though, Carol was concerned about her own test results that would probably be at least a little more delayed in arriving.

She put on the happiest face she could, though, and carefully moved to her chair to sit, not wanting to give away that her knees suddenly felt a little less trustworthy than they had only moments before.

"That's wonderful, right?" Carol asked. Her own voice sounded unnatural to her. She was attempting to sound excited, but it was coming out with a lot more nervousness than she'd hoped for.

"It's the best news we can get," Alice said. She sighed and put the envelope down on the table. "Milton already knows. He'll tell Andrea when he's ready."

"You don't have to?" Carol asked.

"Not with Andrea," Alice said. "Milton's got this whole thing he's got to do. This is Milton's area. Not mine."

"But with the rest of us?" Carol asked.

Alice nodded her head.

"With the rest of you," Alice confirmed. She sat back in her chair and rocked it with her foot. She stared at her computer screen, but Carol knew perfectly well that there was nothing there to see. Alice had only just logged in which meant that her screen would be green and it would display only an input box where it waited for her command of what it should show her. Still, she stared at the input box like it was the most intriguing thing she'd seen all day.

Carol watched Alice for a moment before she decided to speak. It wasn't her place to ask the questions that she did, but she still asked them. Alice didn't usually reproach her for her curiosity and the worst she might do was tell Carol that she couldn't divulge some information or that Carol should be careful asking too many questions if she thought about being so bold with anyone besides Alice.

"Alice—why were you so worried?" Carol asked.

"What?" Alice asked. She finally glanced away from the green screen that had been holding her attention.

"Why were you so worried?" Carol asked.

Alice shook her head.

"I don't want anything to be wrong," Alice said.

Carol nodded.

"I know that," Carol said. "But I also know that—you've got different levels of being worried. Why were you as worried as you were? Nobody wants anything to happen but—did you believe that something would be wrong with the baby?"

"I didn't know," Alice said. "I never know for sure. It's all a guessing game when it comes to creating new humans."

Carol nodded her head again. She swallowed. She'd been around Alice nearly every day for a while now. She was starting to feel like they were old friends. She was starting to feel like she actually knew the woman. She was almost certain that she could tell when Alice was lying to her. And if Alice wasn't lying, she at least wasn't telling the whole truth.

"You can tell me the truth," Carol offered. She gave Alice the best smile she could to encourage her. "I can—I can..." Carol broke off. She wasn't sure what she could do. Could she promise that she wouldn't tell anyone—except Daryl because Alice understood she would tell Daryl? Could she accept whatever Alice had to say? Could she handle it? She could promise Alice all of these things but they weren't promises that Carol could confidently say that she could carry out. Instead, she simply repeated her earlier words of encouragement. "You can tell me the truth. We're friends." She added.

Alice sucked in a breath and let it out with a sigh.

"I don't know if this is something you need to know," Alice said. "Or even that you want to know. I wish to hell that I didn't know it."

Carol's stomach churned, but she swallowed against the sensation in her throat.

"You can tell me," Carol repeated.

Alice nodded her head and picked at a pen that was lying near her computer. She fidgeted with the pen for a moment before she finally decided to start speaking.

"There is some suggestion that—if it's even a real thing—being wild could affect someone's DNA," Alice said.

"But we're not wild," Carol said. "We're just people. I'm no different than you are. The only difference between us, maybe, is that I was out there longer than you were."

Alice nodded her head.

"But there's some suggestion that being wild could be like—like the virus that makes the Dead walk. It could be a different manifestation of that virus. Maybe it even comes from having been out there longer and having had greater exposure to the Dead."

"Do you believe that?" Carol asked.

"It really doesn't matter what I believe," Alice responded.

"So if it's a virus, then they think it's—affecting the babies?" Carol asked.

"It could," Alice said. "We don't know. Hence the reason for the tests. The tests would, in theory, show if there was any sort of genetic abnormality caused by being wild. What I do know is that I've done extensive blood tests on every one of you. Now—you've all tested positive for the virus, which I knew you would, but nobody has shown anything else that couldn't be explained with further testing. So that means, if something did show up, it would mean that it belongs only to your offspring and not to you. It's something that happens in the next generation. It's nothing that's really been tested before, though. Not extensively. And there hasn't really been any population growth outside of the occasional baby to come out of the prisons. People these days? The ones outside of the prisons? They're not having babies."

"Because of that possibility?" Carol asked.

"Because of fear," Alice said. "Fear of that possibility is probably among their concerns."

"Does it matter?" Carol asked. Alice's expression told her that it did matter, but Carol did her best not to show that she was concerned. "What happens? I mean—if the babies are wild they're just—wild. Right?"

Alice's face sunk. She shook her head.

"Carol the government doesn't want more Wilds," Alice said. "The number of Wilds is already out of control in the popular opinion. That's the reason for—exterminating the Wilds. They want to bring the numbers down."

Carol understood, immediately and completely, what Alice was saying. Every part of her body understood it. She felt her pulse kick up, but she focused on her breathing and swallowed back her reaction.

"What happens to the wild babies, Alice?" Carol asked. Her voice was steadier than she expected it to be. "What happens—when they're born? If they're born wild?"

Alice shook her head. Carol's body responded to Alice's facial expression and Carol was pretty sure that she could feel a panic attack seizing her. She shook her head at the woman.

"What happens to them, Alice?" Carol asked again. "When they're born, what happens to them?"

"Nothing," Alice said. "Because—if they're wild? If the tests come back—positive? They won't be born, Carol. The government isn't going to allow it."

Carol shook her head. She could feel herself starting to choke now. She could feel the tears forming in her eyes that blurred her vision. She didn't want the emotions that were bubbling up inside of her, but they were coming whether she wanted them or not.

"You can't do that," Carol said.

"I don't have a choice," Alice said, leaving her chair.

Through blurred eyes, Carol saw Alice moving toward her and she tried to escape the woman, though her chair didn't allow her to go anywhere.

"You can't," Carol insisted, her words running away from her and escaping in a chain like they had a mind of their own. "You can't. You can't...you can't...you can't...they can't...you just—fucking can't! We're human beings!"

Alice wrapped herself around Carol despite the fact that Carol was pretty sure she struck out at the woman. Alice held her tight against her, though, dropping to her knees to make the task easier. The proximity of another person and the strength of her arms wrapped around her helped to calm Carol a little. Slowly she felt herself coming back. She felt herself calming a little. She heard Alice's apologies and her declarations of being left with no more choice in the matter than even Carol would have.

Slowly, despite herself, Carol could breathe again.

"Please," was the first word that she got out that felt like it came from the rational part of her mind. Suddenly, though, it was escaping her in a chain just as her words had before. But this time it was because it was the only word that expressed what Carol wanted to express. "Please. Please."

"I didn't want to tell you because I knew you'd be upset," Alice said.

"Upset?" Carol asked, incredulous. "Upset? Alice...this isn't even—it doesn't even begin to—please, Alice!"

"Carol!" Alice barked loudly. She reached up and caught Carol's face in her hands. Carol jerked away, but Alice held her firmly. "Do NOT freak out until there's something to freak out about. We don't even know that this genetic abnormality exists!"

"But what if it does?" Carol yelled back at her.

"Then we will figure it out!" Alice said. "But ultimately? We'll do what we have to do. I don't have any choice. You don't have any choice. We're all just—pieces here. Pawns. We're just playing the game. That's what the hell we have to do. We have to play the fucking game! All of us do!"

"This game is my life," Carol said. "It's my life and it's Daryl's life and it's everyone else's life. This game? It's my children's' lives, Alice! It's not a fucking game!"

Alice stared at her and Carol felt oddly calm just from holding the woman's eyes with her own and seeing her for that moment, sitting on her knees on the floor, as completely human as Carol knew she was inside.

"Life is a game, Carol," Alice said. "It always has been. And the stakes have always been the same. Life or death. Some win. Some lose. In the end? Carol—we all lose. The only difference is that now we're made aware, every day, that we're playing and we're not in control of the game."

Carol swallowed.

"I don't want to lose my babies," Carol said. She shook her head. "I'm just starting to—feel them. I'm just starting to really know they're there. I'm just..."

"You're just starting to fall in love with them," Alice offered.

Carol nodded her head.

"Please," Carol said.

"Don't worry about it for now," Alice said. "There's nothing we can do anyway. Worrying isn't going to change it. Just—pray if you pray. Hope if you don't. It's going to work out, OK? One way or another."

"We just keep playing the game," Carol said.

Alice nodded her head.

"And we play like we know we can't lose," Alice said. "It's what we've got. We just play—like we know we can't lose."


	94. Chapter 94

**AN: Here we are, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Samirah sat on the couch and stared at Regina whenever the woman was in the room and not flitting back and forth between the living room and the kitchen checking on food that Samirah pretended she was in the mood to eat.

"I don't really like to talk about it," Regina said. "We're still waiting for the captivity born infant they promised us. I guess they're not having as many accidents now that the population is thinning out in the prisons." Regina sat down on the couch and frowned at Samirah. She shook her head. "I was sure we'd have one by now. You know Mark and Jennifer Owens?"

Samirah shook her head.

"No, I don't think I do," Samirah said.

"Mark worked at Region Thirty Three," Regina said. "With John. He was just a guard. They got a lovely little boy. Six or seven, I think. But they're still waiting for a baby too. I'm worried that with—with our age and with John just taking a temporary job with the government—well, I'm worried that if a baby becomes available they're going to give it directly to them and forget about us."

Samirah swallowed.

Before she would have wanted to offer words of comfort to the woman who had been something of a surrogate mother to her after the turn. She would have wanted to promise her that they'd get a child. Maybe she'd have even hoped that some prisoner, somewhere, would have an accident that would offer up a child for placement in their home.

But now she had so many faces for the prisoners. She had so many names for them. She had so many stories.

She couldn't hope that a single one of them suffered what they would likely suffer for such a thing to happen.

"If there's one available," Samirah said, "I'm sure—you'll get one."

Regina didn't look wholly pleased by Samirah's paltry offering of comfort, but Samirah had nothing more to give. Regina sighed.

"What about that project you're doing?" Regina asked.

"I'm not at—I'm not really at liberty to discuss the project," Samirah said. "You know that."

"I know that," Regina said. "I'm not asking for government secrets. Nothing more than what's already on the news. We know about the babies to be born there. Do you think there's a chance that—some of the mothers are too wild to tend to their babies? Do you think there's a chance that—we could get a baby from there?"

Samirah's stomach twisted.

"If any of the mothers are unable or unwilling to care for their children," Samirah said, practically reciting information that she'd read in a robotic tone, "then those children will be offered up for adoption to non-wild families who have put in requests with special consideration given to the families that have donated to fund the project."

Regina looked pleased with that information. She was entirely unaware that the women that she was thinking about were actual women. They were mothers. Right now they were waiting for their children to grow inside them—to actually become children. They were thinking about their futures. Many of them were staying awake at night asking if it was really possible that they had futures and that their children would have them as well.

Regina looked pleased because she was imagining that these women might turn "wild" and reject their own children.

Samirah loved Regina, but she was suddenly finding it very hard to like her.

"If they're going to do that," Regina said, "then I wish they'd let us tour the community, you know? I wouldn't mind getting a look at it. Seeing what it must be like with all of them living there."

"It's like any other small town," Regina said. "Or overgrown neighborhood. However you want to think about it. There's nothing out of the ordinary except the large amounts of guards."

"Necessary to keep that order," Regina offered.

"Not as much as you might think," Samirah responded.

"Still," Regina said, "it would be nice. Those of us who are hoping to adopt could—see the parents, you know? Put in requests for the children we'd prefer if they come available. Do you think—have you seen any that you thought would probably go that way?"

Samirah shook her head, ignoring the churning of her stomach. She feared she was going to have to come up with a reason to excuse herself. She was going to have to fake an emergency or send a message to Melodye or Alice to call her with some fake situation that had to be handled immediately. She couldn't stay and share a meal with the people that she'd once thought of as practically her parents—not the way she was feeling.

They weren't cruel. They weren't even unkind. Or, at least, Samirah had never known John and Regina Hokes to be either, but John's time working in the prison system had certainly colored their opinions of Wilds a certain way.

Or maybe they simply believed what most of the world believed.

"Edith," Samirah said. "How was she—how are things with her? Is she assimilating? I was hoping to see her."

Regina sucked in a breath and sighed. Her face fell from the momentary happiness she'd found in imagining herself hand-selecting the child she wanted from the breeding pair that she found most attractive within the community.

Regina shook her head.

"You can see her if you want," Regina said. "But—you'll have to go to her room to see her. That's where she is. It's where she always is."

"She's not assimilating well?" Samirah asked.

Samirah had remembered the girl, practically in the middle of the night, and she'd remembered that the child was a capture or a wild born.

"She's not assimilating at all," Regina said. "I know they say that you'll love your child even if you adopt but—Sam, she's a lost cause. We've only kept her this long because they said it helps our chances of getting a baby if one becomes available. She's going to have to go to a prison somewhere—or a prison community if your little project works out. She won't speak. She screams if we try to touch her. I just leave food for her and she uses the little bathroom connected to her room. It's honestly—we have a wild animal living in our home. And we're just about to the point of—calling them to come and get her. Even if it hurts our chances at a baby."

Samirah nodded her head and appeared to look as sympathetic as she could.

"Could I see her?" Samirah asked.

Regina waved her hand.

"You know the way to her room," Regina said. "I'd tell you to be careful, but I guess you're used to dealing with Wilds now."

Samirah nodded.

"Yeah," she said. "I'm used to dealing with Wilds."

Samirah got up from the couch and walked to the girl's room. She tapped lightly at the door. There was no response, so she opened the door and let herself inside. It was dark in the room, so she immediately turned on the light. There was no sign of Edith.

"I know your name's not Edith," Samirah said. "I know—you have a name. A real name. You had a mother. A real mother. I'm here to help you. Could you come out? Talk to me?"

The closet door slowly creaked open and the girl called Edith peered out at Samirah.

Samirah smiled at her.

"Do you remember your real name?" Samirah asked.

Edith nodded.

"Can you tell me your real name?" Samirah asked. The girl didn't respond, but she didn't take her eyes off of Samirah either. Samirah wondered if Regina and John had even once tried talking to the girl or if they'd immediately tried to stuff her into their mold and then given up on her when she didn't immediately fit there.

They had no idea what she might have seen or experienced in her life.

Samirah reached in her pocket and pulled out the piece of paper she'd stayed up half the night preparing. She unfolded it and looked at the list.

"What if—I read your mother's name? Do you know your mother's name? Can you tell me if it's your mother's name?" Samirah asked. She didn't insist that Edith come out the closet. If she was more comfortable there, that's where she should stay. Maybe it felt safe there. Samirah sat on the edge of the bed. "Was her name Lila? Angela? Susan? Renee? Monique? Samantha? Linda? Joanne?"

Samirah ticked off the names one by one. She paused a moment after each name, but Edith was showing no response to the names. They were the names of every woman, documented in Milton's files, who had been captured with a wild born or wild captured child that would fit into Edith's age range. Samirah had carefully picked them out, one by one, for her list.

Edith's mother and the key to her true identity was here somewhere.

"Is your mother Carol?" Samirah asked.

Edith straightened up from her semi-crouched position.

Samirah swallowed.

Although she didn't believe that Wilds were actually wild, she'd seen enough to know that humans were unpredictable, especially those that felt threatened or afraid. Edith might feel all those things, and there was really no telling what the girl might be capable of. Samirah braced herself in case the change in position was less about recognizing the name and more about taking some kind of attack position.

"Carol?" Samirah repeated. "Was your mother Carol?"

Edith eased forward, stepping slightly out of the closet.

"Was that her name?" Samirah urged.

"Mama," Edith said softly, the voice escaping her sounding more like that of a small child than of an almost-woman.

Samirah nodded her head.

"Was your Mama's name Carol?" Samirah asked.

Edith nodded her head.

"Mama," she repeated. Immediately she covered her mouth with her hand and Samirah saw the pained expression that took over her facial features as the young woman dissolved into tears and dropped to her knees. She sucked in air for a moment, the air escaping as a cry that she muffled with her hand. "Mama!" She declared again. From what Samirah knew, it was possibly the first word the girl had said in years—and it seemed to be the most important to her.

Samirah got up from the bed and eased herself down on her knees to be at Edith's level. There was more than one Carol on her list. One of them was deceased, and Samirah found herself praying that the girl in front of her wasn't crying for that one. Samirah crawled her way over to Edith and reached an arm toward her. The girl jerked away from her, so Samirah stopped trying to touch her.

"Are you Anna?" Samirah asked. "Is your mother Carol and are you Anna?"

Edith shook her head at her, still crying though it wasn't coming out in gasps anymore.

"Mama..." she repeated.

Samirah nodded her head at her. She was torn between wanting to offer the girl a smile and feeling drawn to tears herself.

"Your Mama," Samirah said, willing her voice to be as soothing as was possible. "Are you Sophia? Is your mother Carol and are you...Sophia?"

Sophia nodded at Samirah and Samirah didn't have to work nearly as hard to force her smile as she had before.

"Hi," she said. "Hi, Sophia. I'm Sammi. And I've heard so much about you!"

"Mama," Sophia repeated, her voice coming out so soft it was barely a whisper. Samirah smiled to herself. Now that she knew it was true, she couldn't help but see Carol in Sophia's face. Samirah nodded her head. She reached out her hand. This time Sophia let her touch her. She let her stroke her back.

"I'm here to help you," Samirah said. "You're going to have to do what I ask you to do. You're going to have to cooperate with me and you're going to have to trust me. But, Sophia? I'm going to get you your name back. And I'm going to get you your Mama back, too. Can you work with me?"

Sophia nodded her head at Samirah.

"Where's my Mama?" Sophia asked.

"She's OK," Samirah assured her. "She's OK. And she's going to be so happy to see you."


	95. Chapter 95

**AN: Here we are, another chapter here.**

 **I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"Do you want to kill me?" Milton asked.

Andrea groaned and ran her fingers through her hair. At the rate she was going, she feared she was going to end up ripping all of it out before the day was done. The tugging sensation felt good. The harder she pulled on her hair, the more grounded she felt. The less she felt like she was just going to shrivel up or something.

"No," Andrea growled.

"Do you want to kill me?" Milton repeated.

Andrea swallowed back her desire to cry over the question.

"No," she repeated.

"You don't want to kill me?" Milton asked.

"No," Andrea repeated quickly. She sucked in a breath and intentionally put her hands under her legs—pinched between her thighs and the chair—to keep from fidgeting anymore. She let the breath out as slowly as she could and focused on breathing a few more times. She was pleased to find it almost as soothing as tugging at her hair had been moments before.

"What if I took the baby away from you?" Milton asked.

Andrea stared at him.

"Would you want to kill me?" Milton asked.

"No," Andrea repeated.

"You wouldn't want to kill me if I took the baby away from you?" Milton asked.

"No," Andrea repeated. "I wouldn't want to kill you. I don't want to kill you. I've never _wanted_ to kill anyone, Milton." She shook her head at him. "I don't think I'd ever want to kill you."

Milton nodded his head and jotted something down on his legal pad.

"But you _would_ kill me?" He asked.

"Yes," Andrea said, barely letting the word come out with sound behind it.

"I'm sorry?" Milton asked.

"Yes," Andrea said a little louder. "I wouldn't want to kill you. But—if I had to? I would kill you."

"Would you have to kill me?" Milton asked.

"Yes," Andrea said.

"You wouldn't have to kill me," Milton said. "There would be nothing that would require you to kill me."

"If you took my baby," Andrea said, "then I would have to."

"Why?" Milton asked.

"To get my baby back," Andrea said.

She rocked in the chair, but she kept her hands firmly trapped under her legs.

"Would you kill someone else?" Milton asked. "If it were another person that took your baby? Would you kill them?"

"Whoever I had to," Andrea said.

She normally wouldn't be so candid. If I were Hurricane Maggie asking the questions, Andrea would never be so candid. But she could tell the truth to Milton. She could tell the truth to Melodye and to Alice. They expected her to tell the truth when they asked her questions and it was the truth—it was Andrea's truth—that would set them all free. That's what they told her.

She would be the one that ultimately gave them all their freedom.

What she was suffering was her sacrifice. She was doing it for them. For all of them. At the end of it all, she'd be the one that gave them their freedom.

She only had to keep from losing herself in the process.

"If the baby is taken away from you," Milton said, "you won't get it back. Do you understand that, Andrea?"

Andrea stared at him.

"You won't get the baby back," Milton said. "If the baby is taken from you, you'll never get it back. Do you understand me?"

Andrea swallowed against the choking sensation in her throat.

"Yes," she said.

"You'll never see the baby again," Milton said. "Do you understand that? If it's taken from you, you'll never see it again. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Andrea repeated, forcing herself to swallow repeatedly. She hated when she fell apart during Milton's questioning.

"How would you feel about that?" Milton asked. "How would you feel, Andrea? If the baby were taken away from you and you were never to see it again?"

Milton repeated the question two more times when he felt that Andrea was taking too long getting around to her answer. She sucked in a breath.

"Devastated," she said.

"Enough to kill?" Milton asked.

"Yes," Andrea said.

"Why would you kill?" Milton asked. Andrea shook her head at him. She freed one of her hands to wipe at her face. "It wouldn't get your baby back," Milton said. "You understand that, right? If you lost the baby, killing wouldn't get it back. Do you understand?"

"I understand," Andrea offered quietly.

"Do you think that killing would make you feel better?" Milton asked.

"Yes," Andrea said.

"Would it make you feel better?" Milton asked.

"I don't know," Andrea admitted.

"But you think it would?" Milton asked.

Andrea shook her head.

"I don't know," she said. "But I think—it would be worth a try. Maybe—at that moment? I would think it was worth it. Just to try. I'd have to try something."

"To get the baby back?" Milton asked.

"Yes," Andrea responded.

"But it wouldn't get the baby back," Milton said.

"But I'd have to try," Andrea said.

"You realize that they would kill you," Milton said. "If you killed me. If you killed anyone. You'd be killed immediately."

"I know," Andrea said.

"But still you believe that you'd try to kill someone, knowing full well that you'd be killed?" Milton asked.

Andrea sucked in a breath and considered it. When Milton started to repeat the question, she nodded her head at him to make it clear that she'd heard him and that she'd understood the question. She only needed a moment to consider her answer. He sat back in his chair and waited quietly while she thought.

"I think I would hope that they killed me," Andrea said. "Honestly—if I was going to lose my baby? Again? After—after what I went through losing Andrew? I think I'd know that they were going to kill me and, maybe, that's what I would want. If I knew there was no chance of getting the baby back? Maybe I'd kill someone just so they'd kill me."

"Assisted suicide, essentially," Milton offered.

"Essentially," Andrea responded.

Milton nodded his head at her and jotted down a few more items on the legal pad. Andrea sat back in her chair, stretched her back, and then rubbed her hand over the swell of her belly. They could do these interviews all day, every day if that's what Milton needed for them to do, but for right now? Her baby was there. He was with her. She could feel the gentle thumping feeling of an elbow or a foot or something as he moved around. He was unbothered by the conversation taking place, but he didn't like when she was tense. Any time she got tense, he responded by reminding her that he was there.

"Would you commit suicide?" Milton asked.

"What?" Andrea asked.

"If someone took the baby," Milton said. "And there was no chance of regaining custody of the child. But you were provided a way—even if it wasn't, perhaps, an obvious tool to use—would you commit suicide?"

"I don't know," Andrea said.

"That's the idea, Andrea," Milton said. "You don't know any of this. Not for certain. I'm not asking you to know. I'm asking you to—tell me what you believe."

Andrea nodded her head.

"I might," Andrea said. "I guess—I probably would?"

"What if you were isolated?" Milton asked.

"Isolated?" Andrea asked. "You mean like—like I am now?" She laughed to herself.

Milton shook his head.

"Complete isolation," Milton said. "The baby is taken. You'll never see it again. You're completely isolated. Your only interaction is with myself or someone who took your baby. You acquire a weapon. Do you kill the person who took your baby? Or do you kill yourself?"

Andrea swallowed.

"Both," she said. "I would—kill them first. Then? I'd kill myself."

Milton nodded and returned to his notes.

Andrea sighed.

"I'm sorry, Milton," Andrea said. "But—I'm really tired and...I'm hungry. How much longer do we have?"

"Not much longer," Milton said.

"Can I go to the bathroom?" Andrea asked.

"You're not allowed to leave once we've begun," Milton said. "You know that."

"I have to pee," Andrea said.

"Your discomfort enhances your ability to answer the questions honestly," Milton said blankly.

Andrea swallowed and nodded, accepting Milton's response. She didn't have to go that badly. She could hold it.

"I'm sorry that I don't know—I just don't know how to answer the questions like you need them answered," Andrea said.

"Actually," Milton said, flipping back through pages he'd filled with his scribbling, "you've given me a great deal of information. Good information. Information that I can use."

"For the project?" Andrea asked.

"What else would I need the information for?" Milton asked.

Andrea laughed to herself.

"I don't know," she admitted. "Can you tell me—what it's for?"

"I cannot," Milton said.

"Can you tell me—what you've learned from me, at least?" Andrea asked.

"I cannot," Milton said.

Andrea growled to herself.

"Will I ever get to know what it's all for, Milton? What it's all about?" Andrea asked.

Milton stared at his notes.

"All in good time," he offered.

He reached around and fumbled around in the bag that he'd brought in with him. He took an envelope out of the bag and put it on the table. Andrea reached for it and Milton put his fingers down on the envelope, pinning it to the table. Apparently Andrea wasn't meant to take it, so she withdrew her hand. Milton tapped the envelope.

"In this envelope are the results from the genetic testing," Milton said.

"Is everything OK?" Andrea asked.

"The envelope is sealed," Milton said. He flipped the envelope over to show that it hadn't been opened before. Andrea was smart enough to know, though, that the seal didn't mean that Milton didn't know the contents of the envelope. It only meant that she didn't know the contents of the envelope. "Scientific findings suggest that being wild is a mutation of the virus that causes posthumous animation. In short, you spent more time among the infected and, as a result, you contracted a strand of the virus that, essentially, mutated. As a result, those that are wild could, arguably, be described as something closer to the ambulatory corpses than the actual living human beings. Do you believe that?"

"Do you believe that?" Andrea asked. "That I'm more like the dead than the living?"

"I asked you a question, Andrea," Milton said.

"Was the scientist who discovered this information Kreegan?" Andrea asked.

"Indeed," Milton responded.

"Then I think it's bullshit," Andrea said.

Milton laughed to himself.

"I'm inclined to agree," Milton said. "However—what I believe has very little merit until the project is complete and I've got scientific evidence to back up my opinion. Science is all that matters in the end. If Kreegan was right, though, then he would also be right about his belief that the mutation would, in essence, be passed down to the offspring of those who were wild, rendering their children completely wild. It would appear as a genetic mutation. You see? A clear genetic mutation."

Andrea sucked in a breath.

"Is there a mutation?" She asked.

"The envelope is sealed," Milton responded. "Do you believe there's a mutation?"

"I don't know," Andrea said. "I'm not a scientist."

Milton laughed to himself. It was only recently that he was beginning to find Andrea funny, but she was starting to believe that Milton, perhaps in spite of himself, was beginning to enjoy her company.

"If Kreegan is correct," Milton said, "and the mutations appear, the government has ordered that every fetus to test positive for the mutation be destroyed in utero. The Wild population is too large already and, therefore, they need to be handled before they're born to create a potentially larger population problem."

Andrea swallowed against the churning feeling in her stomach that she couldn't blame on her son's moving about.

"Abortion?" Andrea asked.

"Involuntary termination," Milton said.

Andrea swallowed again. She could feel the tears prickling at her eyes, but she did everything she could to hold them back. She didn't want to cry. She was tired of crying. It exhausted her and made her eyes burn, but it did little else for her or her situation.

"How does that make you feel?" Milton asked after a moment.

"How do you think it makes me feel?" Andrea asked.

"I don't appreciate when you answer a question with a question," Milton said.

"Horrible," Andrea said. "Sick. Afraid."

"Angry?" Milton asked.

"Honestly? No," Andrea said. "I think—I feel too many other feelings. There isn't room for anger."

"Do you want to open the envelope?" Milton asked, pushing it toward Andrea.

"You already know what it says," Andrea said.

"I do," Milton confirmed.

"You can just tell me," Andrea said. "Unless science requires me to open the envelope?"

Milton picked up the envelope himself and looked at it, but he didn't slide his finger under the flap. He simply stared at the white envelope.

"The baby showed no genetic abnormalities," Milton said.

Andrea released her breath.

"What would you have felt, Milton, if he had?" Andrea asked. "Would you have felt anything at all?"

Milton didn't take his eyes off the envelope, even as he lowered it to rest on the table in front of him.

"I feel a good many things, Andrea," Milton said. "As much as you do. Perhaps more. But—like you? It doesn't matter what I feel. My feelings change nothing."

Andrea swallowed and nodded her head. Maybe it was the most honest answer that she'd ever received from Milton about anything.

"Do you want to know the sex of the baby?" Milton asked.

"What?" Andrea asked.

"The sex," Milton said. "The tests revealed it. Would you like to know the sex of the baby? Or would you prefer to—be surprised?"

"Would you like to tell me?" Andrea asked.

Milton sat there for a moment, still staring at the envelope. Then he packed it and his notepad into the bag that he'd carry upstairs with him to work for a while before their meal arrived. As soon as Andrea saw him packing his things away, she knew that the question session was over and she relaxed a little in her chair.

"You will call me for the meal?" Milton asked.

"Of course," Andrea said.

She stayed seated as Milton walked past her, headed for the staircase. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the feeling of her muscles letting go of some of their tension.

"Andrea?" Milton said from behind her.

"Yes?" Andrea asked.

"My mother's name was Arabella," Milton said. "I know it's an unusual name, but...if you were to consider it..."

"It's a beautiful name," Andrea said, her throat tightening up in a way that she hadn't expected it would.

"I wouldn't be offended, either way," Milton said. "You understand?"

Andrea smiled to herself. Her throat felt so tight that she worried there wouldn't be room for her voice to come through, but she tried out her vocal chords at any rate.

"I understand," she said. "And I'll call you for dinner."


	96. Chapter 96

**AN: Here we are, another chapter here.**

 **I know some people get frustrated in the stories when their favorite characters aren't the focus of chapters, so I'll apologize if you've had to wait. However, certain characters are needed to put certain points in place. Hang tight.**

 **I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Milton sat on the couch and looked through the legal pad that he carried with him.

"All of her responses are the anticipated responses," Milton said. "No matter the variation of the question, her replies remain as uniform as can be expected."

"Because she's not fuckin' crazy and it's not an accident," Alice said around a mouthful of pizza.

"All the responses I'm getting are pretty much in keeping with what we expected," Melodye said. "As long as I can convince them to be honest, they're giving me the same responses. I have no idea, though, what they're giving Maggie."

"It doesn't matter what they're giving to Hurricane Maggie," Alice said. "Not as long as they're keeping themselves alive."

Milton ignored her comment, but Alice was used to Milton doing his best to ignore her at times.

"I find the responses, though often quite laden with emotion, to be only logical," Milton said.

"That's because they are logical," Alice offered. "We're dealing with mothers. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that losing their children is going to terrify them. It also doesn't take a genius to figure out that they'd kill to protect their children. That's like—the first law of nature."

"Unfortunately it's a law that belongs to the animal kingdom," Milton said. It would have seemed that it was written somewhere on his legal pad because he was still searching it like it offered over every word that he needed to speak during the gathering. "It does us very little good to argue animal logic."

"Unless we compare that with human logic," Melodye said. "The fact of the matter is that human beings are animals. We're not _wild_ animals, but we're all animals. If we can compare simple human reaction to the reaction that the so-called Wilds are having, it's just another point of comparison and it strengthens the argument."

"I've thought of that," Milton said. "However...there remains one flaw to going in that direction."

"What?" Samirah asked.

"We haven't got a human subject," Milton said. "Rather, what I mean to say is that we don't have an accepted non-Wild subject. We can't make a comparison when we don't have a subject."

"He's right," Alice offered. "I searched the databases. There's not a single reported pregnancy anywhere that belongs to a non-Wild."

"And with a non-Wild subject," Milton continued, "we lack the leverage that we have with the Wilds. There's nothing legally stopping us from performing the necessary experiments with the Wilds. There are no laws protecting them. Quite the contrary. Our treatment of them is actually humane in comparison to the way they would be treated if they were, at this point, removed from the project. With a non-Wild subject, we would be unable to subject them to the same questioning and psychological tests unless they explicitly agreed to such a thing."

"And the likelihood of finding someone who's going to agree to that is right up there with pigs flying," Melodye said.

"I'll do it," Alice said.

"What?" Melodye asked.

"I like kids. You like kids. I'll do it. I'll inseminate myself. I'll sign the papers. You can run the tests on me. I'll be the test subject," Alice said. "Non-Wild A, if you will."

"We need you being a medical doctor," Milton said. "I don't need you distracted by anything else."

"I'd do it," Melodye said. "Except..."

"Except?" Samirah asked.

Melodye shrugged.

"I can't question myself," Melodye said. "And you'd be hard-pressed to find another psychiatrist willing to go along with the project. Especially one who doesn't have an agenda. My results would be null and void if I were testing myself."

"I'll do it," Samirah said. "I will," she insisted once everyone was looking at her. "I don't have a partner to discuss it with. I don't have family. I've wanted a child. Alice—you can be my doctor. Mel? You can—ask me whatever you want. I'll take your tests. All of them. I'll sign whatever I have to sign. Get me a release. I'll sign it. I'll wear two hats. When I'm the test subject, I'm completely void of rights."

"You already know too much about the project," Milton said, dismissing her.

"Nothing that everybody else out there doesn't know," Samirah said. "I read Kreegan's book. I have just as much ability as anybody else to comprehend what took place there. But that shouldn't matter. What matters is only that I answer the questions honestly, right? I don't know what you and Melodye are looking for. I haven't heard enough about it. Let me do this."

"How would you do it?" Alice asked.

"The same way you would," Samirah said. "You'll help inseminate me. We'll use Milton."

"I beg your pardon," Milton offered.

"It's the best idea," Samirah said. "It adds another layer of credibility to our findings. My child and Andrea's child will be biological half-siblings. It's perfect to study the effects of Andrea's theoretical wild-genes on the child."

"She's right," Melodye said. "Actually—Sammi that's brilliant."

"You do realize, though, that you'd be signing yourself up for a form of...well, essentially psychological torture?" Alice asked. "At least a great deal of psychological stress."

"She knows too much about the project," Milton said. "It won't have the same effect. Her responses will be colored by the knowledge that she has about the plan moving forward."

"Then they'll take my responses with a grain of salt," Samirah said. "But the genetic proof? I can't alter that. They can't dispute it."

"She's right," Melodye said. "Milton—we're never going to find a non-Wild volunteer for this project. Never. Not if we put out advertisements. Nobody is going to sign up for this. They just aren't. But we need this. It could—change the entire view of the project if we're able to offer this data to go with what we've already got."

"Very well," Milton said. "I'll address it on Monday with the Governor."

"You'll stress the importance of it," Alice said. Milton glanced in her direction, but he didn't respond. Instead, he frowned at his notes—probably because he hadn't already solved the problem of locating a non-Wild participant for Wave Thirty Three. "Would it help if I wrote it down for you?" Alice asked with a laugh. "I could just—scribble it in the margin for you there. Put a star by it?"

"If I'm to be ridiculed," Milton offered, "then I'd rather be at home where it's pleasant."

"With Andrea?" Alice asked.

"Alice," Melodye offered. Alice heard the warning in her partner's tone.

"I'd want compensation," Samirah said quickly.

Milton glanced at her. He was already scribbling in his notes, no doubt jotting down information that he thought he would need to remember as he was writing things up for his meeting.

"Food and medical costs are included," Milton said. "Housing can be provided within the community if you'd like to stay there. Otherwise, I'm afraid our budget doesn't allow us much in the way of compensation. That's primarily the reason that it's been so difficult to acquire assistance with the project. Very few individuals like the idea of sacrificing their time or efforts with no promise of reward beyond mention in the study."

"Not that kind of compensation," Samirah said. "Though—I would like to stay in the community."

"Go ahead," Milton said, not looking up from what he was scribbling. "What are your requests, then?"

"I want to add another dimension to the project," Samirah said.

"Beyond the one you're already adding by offering yourself as a sacrifice?" Alice asked. "What?" She asked when she suddenly had the attention of the room. "She kind of is. Milton's the only one that really knows where the hell this shit will end up. And it's a surprise to him half the time when the power decides to change the rules."

Samirah clearly sucked in a breath and held it for a moment. She was set on her decision to do this, but it wasn't an easy thing to swallow. Alice knew that as well as anybody in the room did. They all hoped they knew where this would end, but every single one of them had signed onto the project knowing full well that if things went badly, there was a possibility that they might end up facing the same fate as the Wilds. After all, their long-term exposure to the Wilds, in accordance to Kreegan's beliefs, could possibly condemn them as being seen as Wild themselves if they didn't prove the dead man wrong.

"I don't mind being a sacrifice," Samirah said. "But I mean another dimension. Possibly one of the greatest...pieces...that we've added so far. I'm going to go ahead and tell you—I'm not willing to let this go. I'll fight for this aspect of the project if I have to go to the Governor myself and argue my case."

"Let's hear it first," Melodye said. "There's probably no need for that."

Samirah sucked in a breath and let it out, clearly calming her nerves.

"I've found Carol's daughter," Samirah said. "I've located the girl. I've located—also—the boy that I believe to be Andrea's son. I don't have any proof for him without a blood test but, I think it's him. I'm going to keep looking for the others. I think that—the children should be rejoined with their parents. In Wave Thirty Three. They should be reconnected and integrated into the community."

"That's not possible," Milton said.

"It's impossible to ignore it," Samirah said. "Sophia? Carol's daughter? She was born before the turn. She was a non-Wild. Her mother was a non-Wild. Carol carried her infant daughter into the wild and she was captured as a Wild. Sophia was captured as a Wild. Studying their interactions can only show us more about the Wilds and their contact and interaction with each other. Carol's reactions to her daughter? Sophia's reactions to being reunited with her mother? Especially compared to what she's like now...it's important to the project. Andrea's son was wild-born. He was the genetic offspring of two Wilds. He's an already existing piece to the puzzle we're trying to create. If we miss this? We're missing out on an opportunity that's—it's incredible for advancing Wave Thirty Three."

"Wild A was never reunited with her offspring," Milton said.

"This would be a deviance from the rule," Samirah said.

"Andrea's actions and reactions would change," Milton said.

"No," Samirah said. "They wouldn't. Because Andrea's actions and reactions are primarily driven by the baby she's carrying now. Not the son she lost. Besides—Wild A birthed both her studied children in captivity. Both births took place under the control of Kreegan. Both of Andrea's births will take place in Wave Thirty Three. Her son is just another birth—something extra—but you'll have your controlled births. And you'll have a Wild-born child of two wild parents to study."

"The isolation that's necessary..." Milton started. Melodye cut him off.

"Is already compromised," Melodye said. "If anything? If Andrea's emotions stray too far from where you need them to be? We can use the boy as a—well...I hate to say it, but as a string to manipulate her emotions."

"Threaten the boy," Samirah said, "and you've got Andrea in the palm of your hand."

"Is that even—allowed?" Alice asked. "Milton?"

"Technically," Milton said, "we could dispose of the entire population of Wilds within our care with no other justification than the fact that it was the best thing to be done. It wouldn't be illegal."

"Fucking hell," Alice said.

"Fucking hell exactly," Milton said. Alice swallowed back the inappropriate laughter she felt bubbling up inside her at the fact that, though he used the words, he lacked any true emotion behind them.

"What do you say?" Samirah asked. "We add the extra component to the project and—you get your non-Wild test subject."

"I will bring it up in the meeting on Monday," Milton said. "You'll have an answer by the evening meal."

"But what are the odds that it happens?" Melodye asked. "Because I'd like to get a jump on preparing some things if we're going to introduce this into the project."

"Where are the children located that you've already uncovered?" Milton asked Samirah. "We'll need locations for the guards."

"I can get you the addresses," Samirah said. "Sophia is at the residence of Regina and John Hokes. Andrew, I believe, is in the care of Mark and Jennifer Owens."

Milton nodded his head.

"Alice—when will the insemination take place?" Milton asked.

"We'll check for ovulation," Alice said. "But—as soon as that's happening? It's game on. We'll need you but—you know, only for a bit."

Milton flipped the pages over on his legal pad to hide away the newest notes that he'd made and returned the pad to his bag.

"I'll be leaving you now," he said. "I meant to return to my home hours ago."

"Take pizza with you?" Alice asked. "I could wrap some up."

"That won't be necessary," Milton said. "I much prefer the meal that I requested be delivered at my call. Samirah? I'll be in touch. Monday—by the evening meal."


	97. Chapter 97

**AN: Here we are, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

It had been several days since Daryl and Carol had reported to work. Neither of them were unwell, at least not in the traditional sense of the word, but still they'd been excused for their days of missed work. Someone was excusing them behind the scenes and Carol was certain it was Alice, even though she hadn't spoken to the woman since she'd revealed the horrific plan to do away with any children that might show proof of their wild status in utero.

Daryl was the one that had made the decision to practically turn their tiny home into their very own Alamo. They had no weapons, but that didn't deter him, and Carol wasn't really able to reason with him that nothing they could do would end well.

Like the Alamo, though, they were destined to lose this fight if it came to one.

Carol was trying to explain that to Daryl for probably the hundredth—and possibly the final—time when he saw Alice walking toward their house.

"Just get behind the damn table, Carol," Daryl said.

"It's a table, Daryl," Carol said. "If they're going to kill us? A table isn't going to stop bullets. Not for long, at least."

Carol would have given just about anything, if she had anything to give, to erase the look on Daryl's face. Her own pain almost seemed dwarfed next to his, but she felt his as surely as she felt her own.

"I'm sorry," she said softly.

Daryl shook his head at her.

"Please—don't make me ask you again," Daryl said. "Get...get behind the table."

There wasn't any need to argue with him. Like the defenders of the Alamo, Carol accepted her fate. She leaned into Daryl long enough to plant a kiss on his cheek and then she did what he asked of her. She went to the corner of their living room where Daryl had flipped their table on its side, and she stepped around the legs to stand behind it. It was the only thing that Daryl could find that made anything like what he saw as a satisfactory shield. To Carol, it was the equivalent of pulling the cover over her head and hoping that the bad guys couldn't get to her through her magically protective sheet.

When Alice opened the door, Melodye right behind her, she looked around. As soon as she saw Daryl standing there, chair in hand like he was prepared to tame a lion, Alice stepped inside, brought Melodye in with her and closed the door. She held her hands out in Daryl's direction, gesturing for him to lower the chair.

"We're alone," Alice said. "It's just me and Melodye. Put the chair down, Daryl."

"Like hell," Daryl said. "Get the hell outta my house."

"We're here to talk, Daryl," Alice said. "That's all. We're just here to talk. Put the chair down, OK?"

Daryl stepped forward and both Alice and Melodye backed up a step to keep the distance even between them.

"Go!" Daryl yelled. "Get the hell outta my house! You don't get 'em! You don't get her an' you don't get them! Get the hell outta my house! I'm warnin' you."

"Daryl—what are you going to do?" Alice asked. "Beat me to death with a chair? They'll shoot you. They'll shoot Carol for being an accessory to the crime. Daryl—put the chair down, please."

"The chair's for your fuckin' protection," Daryl growled. "Keepin' my damn distance. 'Cause if I had to kill you? I'd do it with my own damn hands."

"Daryl, please put the chair down," Alice said. "Because—just like you don't appreciate being threatened? I don't appreciate being threatened. We have radios. We can call for guards at any time. But we don't need guards. We're just here to talk. We can't do that until you put the chair down."

"Daryl," Carol called out to him, hoping to urge him to listen to Alice.

"No," Daryl said. He shook his head. It appeared he might be losing a little of his resolve. "No. No—'cause you don't get to do it. You don't. They—they only babies. And they ain't even—you know how big they is? Not even big as my hand. Like little bitty apples. Would fit in my pocket. An' you brung 'em to life just to kill 'em and I ain't gonna let you do it."

"I'm not going to do anything," Alice said, raising her hands again in a gesture to try to convince Daryl to lower the chair. "I'm not. But the way you're acting? It's a threat and it makes you look wild—and they'll kill you for that alone."

Daryl growled at her and raised the chair back up from where he'd started to lower it.

"You ain't seen wild," Daryl growled. "Not like you 'bout to see if you don't get outta my damn house."

"Daryl," Carol called again.

"The tests were negative," Alice said. "Do you understand that, Daryl? The tests showed nothing. No abnormalities. Right now? You're the first wild couple we've got who—whose babies don't show any signs of genetic mutations. I'm not here, Daryl, to take your babies."

Carol felt almost instant relief of a good bit of tension that was tightening up her muscles and she leaned forward to catch the side of the table in front of her to steady her shaking knees.

Daryl was surprised as well. He lowered the chair, though Carol doubted that he was even consciously aware of his move.

"Can we talk?" Melodye asked. "We've got some things we need to talk about. Can we do that? Just—all of us sit down calmly and talk? Like people?"

"You're not gonna—kill 'em?" Daryl asked.

"No," Alice said. "Nobody's killing anybody. At least, not if you put the chair down."

Daryl let go of the chair once its feet were on the floor and he backed up from it. As soon as Carol felt like her knees were done shaking from the tension of the moment, she stepped from behind the table. Alice's shoulders slumped slightly and a nervous smile came to her lips.

"Sit? On the couch?" She asked.

Daryl nodded at her. He looked at Carol and Carol smiled at him and nodded. To further invite him to sit, Carol walked around the couch and sat herself. Daryl followed her and sat down beside her. He took a cigarette from the pack that he had there, a bowl full of spent butts and ashes on the table acting as proof that he'd been keeping watch over the comings and goings of people outside their house for days, and he lit it. Carol noticed that his hands were shaking, but she didn't say anything to him about it. Instead, she simply took the hand that he wasn't using and wrapped it in her own as though she needed the comfort that the simple touch offered.

Trusting that the threat was over, Alice and Melodye both took seats in the chairs across from Carol and Daryl in the small sitting area. It took a moment, but finally Alice relaxed back into her chair.

"The tests were negative," Alice said. She shook her head. "No genetic abnormalities. As far as we can see, the babies are healthy. There's nothing alarming there. Nothing out of the ordinary."

Carol squeezed Daryl's hand.

"That's not even why we're here," Melodye said. "At least it's not the real reason we're here. There's been another part of the project that was cleared by the government yesterday. It involves the two of you among others in the community. It's another aspect of the—of the psychological study of everyone here."

"What is it?" Carol asked, feeling her muscles tense up at the possibilities.

"It's going to require a few more visits than originally planned with me," Melodye said. "And also—with Maggie."

"What is it?" Daryl asked, repeating Carol's unanswered question for her.

"We'll need to relocate the two of you," Alice said. She held her hand up quickly when Daryl started to speak to dispute the plan—they knew too well that relocation was another word for escorting people out of the community that never returned. "Not like that. To one of the larger family houses. It's just a simple move. A true relocation. It'll give you more room to spread out and prepare for the arrival of two babies. But—it's also going to allow room for the fact that there's going to be another member joining your household soon. Even sooner than the babies."

"What do you mean?" Carol asked.

Alice and Melodye looked at each other and Carol watched both of them. It was clear that they hadn't discussed exactly how they were going to handle the conversation they were involved in at the moment because they went back and forth for a moment about who would speak. Finally it was Melodye that spoke.

"Carol—we were given some information at the start of the project that was...false," Melodye said. "We were originally told that all wild-born and wild-captured children had been lost years ago through, basically, a series of problems and unfortunate occurrences."

Carol swallowed and nodded her head. Just the mention of it made her chest tighten. She still remembered the feeling of being dealt the blow that her daughter was simply gone.

"It turns out that they were part of an earlier attempt to rehabilitate Wilds," Alice said.

Melodye nodded.

"The idea behind it was that they were children and, therefore, they'd be more easily reintroduced into society," Melodye said. "Unfortunately it didn't have quite the effect that the government wanted it to have. The youngest ones to be placed in homes assimilated pretty well. They weren't old enough to remember anything about their captures or their lives prior to capture. The older children didn't quite assimilate as well."

"Basically, they were still wild," Alice said.

"Most of them have been shuffled around from one location to another," Melodye said. "They've been moved from family to family to see if different people might have different outcomes with assimilation."

"Are you saying—they're alive?" Carol asked.

Melodye nodded her head and Carol's pulse picked up so quickly that she felt a rush in her chest and almost felt lightheaded for a moment. If she hadn't been sitting down, she would have worried that she might topple to the floor.

"Is Sophia...alive?" Carol asked.

Her heart practically stopped when Melodye and Alice both nodded their heads. Carol leaned into Daryl and he put his arm around her, pulling her close to him. For just a moment, she felt distant from her location. She could hear them, but what they were saying didn't really make sense to her. She finally held her hand up to stop the flow of words coming at her.

"I want—my daughter," Carol said. "Where's my daughter?"

"That's the thing," Melodye said. "She's been placed with a family. Now—the adoptive parents have certain rights. So Milton is in the process of getting the paperwork done to dissolve the adoptions that have taken place. As soon as he's able to get everything done, the children will be removed from the households they're in and they'll be brought to the community—as part of the project."

"Sophia?" Carol asked.

Melodye nodded.

"She'll be brought here," Melodye said. "The idea is that she'll be reintroduced to you. Introduced into your home."

"That's why we need you two to cooperate with the move to one of the larger houses that will provide Sophia with some private space," Alice said.

"We'll study your reintroductions and the process of assimilation that takes place," Melodye said. "It's another aspect of Wave Thirty Three."

Carol stood up, suddenly seized with the need to move. She was as lightheaded as she expected she'd be when she took her feet so quickly and she reached out a hand to touch Daryl's shoulder and steady herself. As soon as she felt steady, she gave her feet the permission to pace the way that they wanted to.

"Where is she?" Carol asked. "Is she OK? When—when can I have her? Please—we have to get her."

Melodye stood up and approached Carol, her hand out, like she wasn't sure if Carol might bite her. Carol didn't. She let the woman rest her hand on her arm and stop her pacing.

"We'll get her as soon as we can," Melodye said. "Maybe—it takes a few days. The orders have to go through and she has to be removed from the home. But we'll get her as soon as we can."

"Is this real?" Carol asked, searching Melodye's face for any sign of a lie. "Is this—real or is it just a test? I need to know."

Melodye smiled at her.

"It's very real," Melodye said. "Can we count on you two to move with us? Get ready for her? Without any problems or—or chairs—being necessary?"

Carol glanced at Daryl. She couldn't quite read his expression, but he looked just about as overwhelmed as he had when he'd announced to her that he saw Alice and Melodye headed for the house.

"Please?" Carol asked, directing it toward him.

"Absolutely," Daryl said, some barking hoarseness to his voice. "Weren't no question. When do we start?"

"We'll start packing your things now," Alice said. "The order has already been put in for them to start preparing the house and adding a few extra touches to it to welcome you home. By lunch—we'll have you in your new home."

"There's just one thing," Melodye sad. "Carol—do you know what year it is?"

Carol looked at her and shook her head.

"No," Carol said. "Not—really."

"It's the year 16 A.T.," Melodye said. "And you were—you've been in captivity for a while."

Carol nodded her head.

"I know," Carol said.

"Do you know how old your daughter is?" Melodye asked.

Carol shrugged her shoulders.

"I hadn't thought about it, honestly," Carol admitted.

"I didn't think you would have," Melodye said. "How old was Sophia when you last saw her?"

Carol shrugged and shook her head.

"I don't know," Carol admitted. "Eight? Nine? Maybe...I don't know."

"It's OK," Melodye said, clearly seeing that Carol was suddenly feeling choked up by the fact that she had no idea how long she'd spent in the wild with her daughter, and she certainly had no idea how long she'd been in captivity. "I just wanted you to know, so you could start to prepare yourself. Because—it might take you a little time to come to terms with things, and that's OK. As long as you don't reject her, it's OK if it takes you some time. But, Carol? Sophia is about sixteen years old now. So—she might be a little different than you remember."


	98. Chapter 98

**AN: Here we are, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"So you can see the layout is really very similar to what you're used to," Melodye said, giving them a whirlwind tour of the house that came down mostly to pointing and gesturing. "Here's the master bedroom and—you have a bathroom attached there. And then there's a second bathroom and over there you have a room that we've set up for Sophia so that she'll have some privacy and—of course, there's the nursery. We had your furniture delivered that you picked out and a few little surprises put in there. Your clothes and things are here, but we've also got you fresh linens and towels so that it's just a little bit nicer of a welcome. Everything else works just like you're accustomed. You've got your television and your phone. You can eat meals in the public dining area or you can order food to be delivered. Nothing like that changes. And everything will be updated to reflect your new address."

Daryl nodded at her. It was really all that he felt he could do at the moment.

It was a lot to take in, it was happening quickly, and they hadn't had even a moment to process anything. Daryl was hugging his pillow to his body—because foolishly he'd believed that he might need it at the new house and had carried it, along with bags of clothes and other items, through the street to their new home. Carol had the overall appearance of being stunned and had very nearly forgotten everything she owned, leaving Daryl to grab her bag for her before they'd left.

Now they were getting a whirlwind tour of their new house by the petite blonde and, though the house was every bit as nice as their old one, Daryl still felt like he needed to sit down somewhere and process the whole thing for just a moment.

"Are we good?" Melodye asked.

"Yeah," Daryl said, realizing that Carol seemed unable to do more at the moment than simply nod. "Yeah—we...good."

"Do you need anything else?" Melodye asked. "Does it look like we've forgotten anything?"

Daryl glanced around him. Honestly, in the few moments they'd been in the house, he hadn't seen anything that had been some kind of glaring problem, but they hadn't even had time to explore the space yet. It was much like when they'd arrived at their first house and they were simply put in the house to figure things out.

He shook his head.

"I don't—think so," he said. "Carol?"

Carol looked at him wide-eyed like he'd just asked her the most difficult question that she'd been asked since their arrival at the community.

"I'm fine," she said.

"If you think of anything," Melodye said, "then you'll just do what you normally do. Pick up the phone and place an order or—you can just walk over and pick it up if you don't want to wait. Now—given the circumstances, you've both been relieved of your work duties for the time being. We understand that there are a lot of adjustments that you'll need to make, so we want you to have time to make those adjustments. You're not banned from work, so you're certainly invited to come to work if you'd like that escape or—whatever—but you're not required to come in. Do you understand?"

"Think we got it," Daryl said. "Come to work if you want. Don't if you don't."

"That's pretty much it," Melodye said with a laugh.

"Sophia?" Carol asked.

"A couple of days," Melodye said. "More than likely. Maybe it's sooner than that, but we have no idea really. It's whenever the legal business is taken care of."

"And when do you come?" Daryl asked.

"I'll be here when they bring Sophia," Melodye said. "Just to observe. I won't be questioning you—or anything like that. I'll be here for observations. Just to make sure that everything is going to go as smoothly as possible with the reintroduction. After that? We'll give you a few days to sort of settle into things before we begin that part of the project."

"And the babies?" Daryl asked. "You're sure—they're OK? Nobody's gonna—they ain't gonna try to do nothin' to 'em?"

Melodye smiled at him and shook her head.

"The tests revealed they have no abnormalities," Melodye said. "They're OK. It's business as usual. Just—make sure that Carol's taking care of herself as she has been. And—not to spoil the surprise, but the tests revealed what the babies will be. So—we set up something of a reveal of their sexes for you in the nursery. It's the best we could do as far as a surprise goes."

"You mean like—we know what they are?" Daryl asked. "Like—they're already like..."

Melodye nodded even before Daryl could work out, in his feeling of stupor over everything that was happening, exactly what it all might mean.

"Genders," Melodye said. "Or, actually, biological sexes. But the same difference."

Daryl nodded at her again. Melodye reached out a hand and touched Carol's shoulder and Carol looked at her, the overall look of surprise still on her features.

"Rest some," Melodye said. "Settle in. Sophia will be here as soon as we can get her here. The babies are fine. Healthy and strong. Just—settle in and take care of yourselves."

She didn't wait around for some kind of proper goodbyes. Maybe she already knew that Carol and Daryl needed a few moments before they were ready and able to offer anything that resembled a proper farewell. Instead, she simply left them standing in their new living room. Carol was holding the one small bag that she'd remembered to grab. Daryl was holding his pillow. The other bags were sitting just a few feet away from them where he'd put them down when he'd come in the door. Anything else they needed was already in the house.

They were home, again, but this time it was the home where they'd stay. It was the home where, if they won this whole thing, they would possibly spend the rest of their lives and raise their children.

And Daryl found that he was mostly overwhelmed because it was hitting him all at once that they weren't taking it away from him. It was all his. The home, the family—the babies he'd feared they would lose.

He had a family—one he was willing to die without a moment's hesitation—and they were home.

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"Hey—you OK?" Daryl asked, tapping at the door frame. Carol was sitting on the bed in the room that they'd readied for Sophia. It was a room like any other room. It boasted a bed, a dresser for clothes, and a small night table. It would be up to Sophia to order the things that made it feel, Daryl supposed, like it was her own.

Daryl stepped into the room.

"This is her room," Carol said. "This is—Sophia's room."

Daryl nodded.

"It is," Daryl said.

"She's going to be here, Daryl," Carol said. "In this room. She's going to sleep—right here. Just a few feet away from our room."

Daryl swallowed and nodded.

"She is," Daryl said.

Carol wiped at her eyes. Daryl wasn't sure how exactly he'd explain what she was going through, but she looked like she was happy and sad at the same time. There was something of a smile on her face, but her cheeks were damp with tears that were leaking out of her eyes and probably had been for a bit.

"I put our stuff away," Daryl said. "Put it all in them drawers like you had it—ya know...back at our other house."

Carol nodded her head and gave him a quiet thanks before she ran her hand over the blanket on the bed.

"What if she doesn't remember me?" Carol asked.

Daryl crossed the room to stand in front of Carol. He reached a hand out and touched her shoulder. She didn't flinch away from him, so he put his other hand on the other shoulder and kneaded her muscles.

"She's gonna remember you," Daryl said. "You remember her. She's gonna remember you. You her Ma—that's pretty damn important."

"What if she doesn't—want me?" Carol asked. "Or want to be here? Daryl—what if you don't like her?"

Daryl laughed to himself.

"She's part of you," Daryl said. "I'm gonna love her. She's gonna love it here. We'll help her love it here. We'll teach her everything she's gotta know about—bein' here."

"Her father didn't really love her," Carol said. "She didn't really get to know him. She wouldn't remember him, Daryl. When he died? I was scared to death. I didn't think I'd live. You know? I was out there and she was so small and I didn't think I'd live because I was on my own and I didn't know how to survive out there. But—part of me was happy. Because I wasn't going to have to live with him. He was gone. And I knew she wasn't going to live with him. She'd never know him. She'd never remember him."

Daryl's stomach twisted. He nodded his head at Carol.

"I know that feelin'," Daryl said. "You lose somebody an'—it's the best damn thing that can happen. They just gone and you can breathe. But it's terrifying too. Losin' somebody that's always been there. You don't—you don't know why you feel that way. But—I guess even if you got somethin' that's bothering you, like a splinter or something? It's botherin' you and you don't like it, but you gonna notice that it's gone."

"It felt like something was better than nothing sometimes," Carol said. "Someone was better than no one. I didn't think I could—survive with her out there."

"But you did," Daryl said. "And you survived Region Thirty Three. You survived—all that shit. An' you gonna survive this too. One day? There ain't gonna be shit left to survive. Gonna just be livin'."

"I let her down," Carol said. "I—let her down. I let us get captured."

"You kept her alive out there," Daryl said. "An' you did a damn good job of it. I'm standin' here too. Every damn one of us got captured. That weren't on you. They were everywhere. That ain't on you."

Carol frowned deeply, but she nodded her head at Daryl as a way of giving him thanks for his support.

"What if she's mad about...?" Carol said. She didn't finish the sentence, but she rested her hand on her belly. "What if she thinks—I was trying to forget her? Or replace her?"

Daryl shook his head at her. He knelt down, then, balancing in front of Carol.

"Don't," Daryl said. "She ain't gonna be mad. She's gonna understand. But—don't'cha go bein' upset with them neither. They important too, remember?" He put his hand on her belly. "They important little things and you can't go bein' upset with them 'cause they ain't gonna understand it. You their Ma and that's—that's what they got. That's all the hell they gonna know. You an' me and they got a big sister that's comin' to live with 'em, but they won't understand if you start gettin' mad at them." He shook his head at her again. "You take your time, but you don't get mad at them—'cause they'll take 'em away, Carol. You get mad at 'em and they'll take 'em away from us."

Carol shook her head right back at him. She put her hand over his and worked her fingertips under his, wrapping her hand around his.

"I'm not mad at them," Carol said. She brought her other hand up and petted Daryl's head with it, running her fingers through his hair. "I'm not mad at them. I can't be mad at them. They're my babies. Just like Sophia. I just—I don't want her to be upset, Daryl. I don't want her to feel forgotten."

Daryl swallowed, his throat aching from the pain that he could see Carol was in and from the pain that he felt when he thought about the fact that everything, if they weren't careful, could simply fall apart.

"She won't," Daryl said. "We'll just see to that. But—I don't want them gettin' forgotten neither."

"They won't," Carol said softly. Some hint of a smile returned to her face. "I promise you, Daryl. They won't. My heart—it's big enough for everyone."

Daryl swallowed again and nodded his head. He closed his eyes for a moment and Carol kept up the affectionate petting that he appreciated enough that he didn't even care that the position he'd taken was killing his knees.

"Did you look in the nursery, Daryl?" Carol asked.

"What?" Daryl asked, opening his eyes to her.

"Have you looked in the nursery?" Carol asked. "Did you go and see? What the babies are? Do you know—what we got?"

Daryl shook his head. He'd almost forgotten that there was a surprise supposedly waiting for them in the room.

"No," Daryl said. "I was—waitin' on you. Figured it was somethin' we could do together."

Carol smiled at him.

"I think it is something we should do together," she said. She laughed quietly. "After all, we did this together."

Daryl laughed to himself in response. His chest ached with the action.

"We did," Daryl said. "So we gonna go look? Do it together?"

Carol sucked in a breath and held it for a second before she blew it out slowly. She nodded her head.

"Like everything else," she said. "Let's go."


	99. Chapter 99

**AN: Here we are, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"Are you OK? Andrea—are you OK?" Michonne asked. Andrea winced and closed her eyes again. "Is she OK?"

"Scoot over," Alice said, dropping to her knees beside Andrea. She slipped her hand under the back of Andrea's head and somewhat lifted her head. Andrea opened her eyes again. Alice smiled. "That was a helluva bump. Milton's the smartest man I know, but he's sometimes not too smart about delivering information. Everything OK in there?"

When Milton called Alice, she'd gotten there so quickly that Michonne might have been convinced that the brunette had super powers if she hadn't been out of breath when she burst through the door. The news had almost taken Michonne off her feet as well. It had certainly knocked the wind out of her, but Andrea had gone down before any of them realized that she would. Milton had immediately called for Alice, worried that the fainting spell had been caused by something more serious than possibly the greatest shock that Andrea had suffered in years.

Andrea started to sit up and Alice pushed her down with her hand on her chest.

"How about you just stay there a minute, OK? You hit your head pretty hard, didn't you? You've got a pretty good knot." Alice said.

Shock or surprise came over Andrea again, all at once, and she went rigid. She tried to sit up again, but Alice held her in place.

"Pillow, Michonne?" Alice asked, waving her fingers in Michonne's direction.

Without hesitation, Michonne crawled across the floor from her spot beside Andrea and fetched one of the couch pillows that Alice tucked under Andrea's head.

"My baby..." Andrea said. "Mich?"

"I'm here," Michonne confirmed, crawling back across the floor instead of bothering to put effort into getting to her feet.

"Baby is fine," Alice said. "She's just fine. I don't think she got hurt. But still, if you think you're going down and you get a chance, warn someone."

"She didn't have a chance," Michonne said. "And unless Milton was going to catch her? I don't think I was moving fast enough to get to her. I got a little lightheaded myself."

"Big news needs to be delivered when everyone is sitting down," Alice said, looking over her shoulder at Milton who was watching the whole scene. "Just a precaution?"

"Where is he?" Andrea asked, giving up on trying to get up until Alice moved her hand from her chest. "My baby...I want...I want him."

Alice nodded her head at Andrea.

"That baby," she said. "That one—we'll bring Andrew to you as soon as we can get him. We thought he was with a family and—you know I came yesterday for the blood?"

Andrea nodded.

"We tested the first boy we found and it wasn't him," Alice said. "But he belonged to someone else in the community so that was a plus. They get their baby back too. Turns out, though, that we found your son when we ran the databases of adoptions and tested a few more children we found. We found him, but he's with a family. They have to dissolve the adoption. To get him back. Then he's here."

Michonne almost felt a little lightheaded again and she dropped back on her backside on the floor and put her forehead against her knees.

"You alright there, Mama?" Alice asked. "I guess—Andrew's kind of important to you, too."

Michonne didn't want to lift her head, so she hummed her agreement.

"He was—my baby too," Michonne said. She sucked in a breath. "From—the moment I knew he was there. He was—he was just my baby too." She laughed to herself. "I held him when he was first born. I heard him take his first breaths." Michonne choked up and wiped her face against her leg. "I—I was there when they took him, too. He was my baby—too."

Alice moved her hand away from Andrea's chest, apparently confident the woman would stay down until instructed to sit up, and reached a hand out to rub at Michonne's arm.

"I guess we forget that sometimes," Alice said.

"Yeah," Michonne said. "I guess you do. You're sure it's him?"

"DNA is a match," Alice said. "He's Andrea's biological child."

Michonne nodded her head to acknowledge the information. She wasn't sure what to say. She wasn't sure there were any words for the way she was feeling at the moment.

"He'll be here—forever?" Michonne asked.

"For as long as you're here," Alice said. "I mean I don't know about your plans for forever. He's being returned to you. To both of you."

Andrea broke, then, and started to cry. Michonne pulled her up, giving her permission herself to sit up, and she moved around so that she could hold Andrea against her. Andrea pressed her face against Michonne, dampening her chest with tears.

"The last time either of us saw him," Michonne said, rubbing Andrea's back, "was when they took him. I don't even know if Andrea—I can't remember if she was even conscious when they got through with her."

"I was," Andrea said. "Jesus—I was. I remember—he was crying and I was so scared they were going to hurt him."

"I thought they were going to kill Andrea and Andrew both," Michonne said. "I was so scared because I didn't want to see any of it. You've seen him?"

Alice nodded her head.

"Just for a moment," Alice said. "He's—healthy. He's beautiful. Andrea—he looks like you. Green eyes. He's got dirty brown hair. He's a cutie."

Andrea straightened up and wiped at her face. She was finally starting to accept it all. She was starting to get control of herself. Michonne let her sit up, but she didn't take her arm from around her body. She needed the support of touching Andrea as much as Andrea might need whatever she had to offer her.

"I got him something," Milton said. "Alice suggested that it would be customary for me to offer a present to him. Something to say that he's welcome here."

Milton brought over the brown bag that had started the whole thing. When he'd gotten home from work, carrying the bag, Andrea had asked him what was in the bag. She'd assumed it might be something for the baby she was carrying. From there Milton had gone, somewhat roughly, into telling her that Andrew was alive and well and that he'd be returned to her soon.

Milton tried to hand the bag to Andrea, but it was Michonne that reached and took the bag. She rested it on the floor and using the one hand that she had free, she pulled out the item that was on top of the somewhat packed bag.

"It's a—train," Michonne said. "An engine."

"You connect the cars," Milton said. "Alice suggested that it would be customary to offer the boy a present. I enjoyed trains when I was young. It's a very nice train. All wood. Very well carved by hand."

Michonne passed the piece of the train she was holding to Andrea and tipped the bag to look inside it. Inside there were several more pieces to make the wooden train longer and more impressive.

"I'm sure he'll—he'll love it," Michonne said. "Thank you, Milton."

"I'm sure he'll grow into it," Andrea said. "But we don't have anything for him."

"Milton's already ordered a bed," Alice said. "They'll set up a room for him tomorrow. That little room that—well, that room that Michonne pretends she uses? We thought it could be a room for him. You can order whatever you'd like for it. He'll be good for you. He'll give you something to—keep you entertained."

"He'll need a crib," Andrea said. "Clothes. Diapers. He doesn't need much. He's not demanding. But—milk. I don't—I don't have milk anymore."

Alice frowned and looked at Michonne before she looked back to Andrea and shifted around, taking a more comfortable position on the floor in front of Andrea.

"Andrea—you remember Andrew as...a baby," Alice said. "But—he's not a baby anymore."

Michonne felt her own muscles tense up. She knew it. She knew it as well as she knew her own name that time had passed. It had passed for them so it had passed for Andrew. He wasn't a baby. He'd grown up without them.

But still it was difficult to know it, even when she did know it.

Andrea shook her head at Alice.

"No," Andrea said. "No...he's...no..."

Michonne rubbed her back. Andrea knew it too, but it didn't mean that it wasn't going to take her a few minutes to digest it when it was blaring reality.

"He's about four years old, Andrea," Alice said. "He's a sweet little boy. So handsome. You're going to—you'll be amazed at how big he is. And how—how smart."

Andrea covered her mouth with her hand and looked at Michonne wide-eyed. Michonne simply nodded at her.

"He would be about four, maybe," Michonne said. "We've been in captivity for a while."

"He was just a baby," Andrea said.

Alice nodded.

"He was," Alice said. "And—maybe you need to take these days to prepare yourself, right? Because—he's about four now. And—he's grown up with a family. You know? And I know that—shit—they're not his family, Andrea. They're not. And they never had any right to be his family and you never should've lost him. That wasn't fair. But they were his family to him. And he might...well, he might miss them. At least for a little bit."

Michonne's stomach twisted when she heard the words. Realization ran over her and it was almost painful.

"He doesn't know us," Michonne said. "He knows them."

Alice nodded her head.

"My baby doesn't know me," Andrea said, more to herself than any of them.

"He might," Alice said. "He might. We don't know. We don't know how much he'll remember or—what he'll recognize. He might recognize your voice or even your smell. But—you need to prepare yourself in case it takes him a little time to adjust. It's OK if it takes him a little time to adjust. It's OK if it takes you a little time to adjust. You've just got to hang in there, though, OK? Because..."

Alice broke off.

"Because what?" Michonne asked.

Alice immediately got the expression on her face of somebody who put their foot in their mouth and knew it. She looked like she instantly regretted it. She glanced over her shoulder at Milton.

"What is it, Alice?" Michonne asked. "You've got to be honest with us so we know what we're dealing with."

Alice sighed.

"If Andrea rejects Andrew, then we're going to have to report it," Alice said. "They'll remove Andrew if she doesn't want him. But he's already been introduced into the project files so he won't go back to his family. Basically, he's either with you or he's a warden of the project. He's a wild-born child. And—if Andrea rejects him, then it's proof she'll reject her child and...it means she stands a good chance of losing custody of this one and the next one."

Andrea started to protest, sitting forward, and Michonne caught her.

"She's just telling us what not to do," Michonne said. She looked at Alice. "And you don't have to worry about it. We'd never reject Andrew. Never. He's our son. Whether he's six months old or—sixty years old. He's our son. We'll figure it out. We'll work through it. But—I have to ask this. What do we do if he's not happy with us?"

"Melodye's going to work with you," Alice said. "As much as you want her to. He's young. He's going to adjust. It's just going to take everybody being, you know, patient with each other. Can you do that, Andrea?"

Andrea nodded her head.

"I don't want to lose him again, Alice," Andrea said. "I can't. If you bring him back? I can't—lose him again."

"I understand," Alice said. "We don't want that to happen."

"I can't lose her, either," Andrea said.

Alice shook her head.

"We don't want that either," Alice said. "So—how about you take a couple of days and Milton's going to lift your solitude rule, OK? Michonne gets to stay home from work with you for a couple of days until he gets here and then a couple of days once he's here, OK? You can't leave the house, but Michonne can stay with you. The two of you just focus on—getting ready for him?"

"We can do that," Michonne assured Alice, hugging Andrea to her. "We can do that. When he gets here? We'll be ready for him."

"Good," Alice said. "And—don't let her go to sleep for a little while? Just in case she hit her head a little harder than we think she did. I think she's OK, but just as a precaution."


	100. Chapter 100

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Giving her body a moment to simply adjust to everything that was happening left Carol feeling like every limb weighed fifty or sixty pounds. It hadn't been that long, in a matter of hours, since she'd woken that morning. Her body, though, didn't believe that. It felt like she'd been awake for days.

It was overwhelming. All of it was.

She'd gone from fearing for her own life and for Daryl's life, sure that neither of them would live to see the end of the day, to discovering that they would both live and the two babies she carried were healthy. Her daughter—whom she'd been told was lost to the world entirely—was returned to her in the metaphorical sense and would be returned to her physically soon.

They had changed homes and Carol had seen, firsthand, the special proof that Sophia was truly real and she'd truly be coming back to Carol, even though she'd be so very different than Carol recalled when she brought her face to mind.

And Carol worried, really, what it might be like to see her daughter again after all these years. She feared learning what her daughter's life had been like. She feared finding out just what she hadn't been able to protect her from.

Carol was exhausted and reminded that she had felt, for a very long time, like she failed her daughter. And she was afraid to fail her again, just like she was afraid to fail the tiny lives entrusted to her now as well.

She needed something happy. She needed something nice. She needed something easy and comfortable.

The greatest happiness they could expect, at the moment, would be to open the door to the nursery and take in their "surprise". Just behind the door, there would be something that would reveal another piece of their personal little puzzle to them. They would have a little something more to contribute to the faces of the babies. Babies that they were told, now, were healthy and theirs to keep.

Carol found that she was nervous when she rested her hand on the doorknob, but she was excited too. Her body almost protested the drain of energy that the excitement threatened when pure exhaustion had already taken so much out of her.

Daryl looked nervous. He looked tired, too. His eyes were almost bloodshot and his eyelids looked heavy. Like her, he'd run a gamut of emotions and Carol was sure that he was probably crashing after he'd very nearly stared his own death in the face that morning. He was exhausted, too, but he wanted the surprise. He wanted faces to go with the little ones that he'd shown he was more than willing to die to try to protect.

And Carol really wanted the surprise as much for him as for herself.

"You want to open it?" Carol asked.

"Go ahead," Daryl instructed.

Carol turned the knob and opened the door.

The furniture that she'd ordered was in the room. It was set up. Two cribs stared back at Carol, proof that she was welcoming two new babies into this room as surely as she was welcoming her nearly grown daughter into the other. Her heart kicked up a notch as she realized the almost absurd nature of it. Her daughter was nearly a woman. Her babies were still growing in her womb.

It was little wonder that she was exhausted.

As soon as she took in the little surprise for them, though, Carol felt a strange flood of peace. It was OK. It was fine. It would all be OK and—one way or another? They would get through it. They'd play the game, as Alice suggested they were all doing, and they'd win somehow.

And it would be worth it. Even the exhaustion that they felt would be worth it.

Staring head on at the proof of her impending return to motherhood, Carol felt oddly at peace. Her daughter was grown and her babies were growing and healthy. And one day, she'd have them all there, under the very same roof where, if she was lucky, she would spend at least a good portion of her life with a man who loved her enough to die for her and their family—even if she hoped he never had to.

Carol walked over to one of the cribs and took the blanket hanging over the side of it between her fingers. She rubbed the soft fabric for a second before she leaned over the side of the crib to touch her fingers to the fabric of the few soft outfits that were folded there, and then she touched them to the fur of the delicately colored bunny rabbit sitting in the crib.

Daryl was quiet and Carol turned to look at him to see how he might be feeling about things. She was surprised to find him, when she turned around, standing there with his brow furrowed even more deeply before. Honestly, he looked angry enough to bite someone and it immediately made Carol's stomach churn. She felt, for just a moment, like all the blood was draining out of her body.

"You're not happy?" Carol asked.

"Hell no," Daryl barked.

Carol jumped.

"But—why, Daryl?" Carol asked. "I thought you'd be happy."

He looked unhappy enough that Carol's stomach fluttered in response to his mood.

"Melodye said we was gonna find out what we got. Boys or girls and we'd know it as soon as we come in here," Daryl said. "I wanted to know what the hell we got."

Carol glanced around her. She swallowed. Daryl was madder about whatever perceived issue there was than he'd been about anything except the possibility that they might take their babies away. Carol wondered, though, if it might simply be the fact that he was still riding the wave of every chemical his brain had likely released into his body over the past few days and it was clouding his perception a little.

"What did you want, Daryl?" Carol asked.

"I wanted to fuckin' know!" Daryl barked. "But we come in here and it ain't nothin' but more games. Nothin' sayin' it's boys. Nothin' sayin' it's girls. Just baby stuff everywhere."

Carol nodded her head. She was relaxing a little. Daryl was frustrated and the feelings he was still trying to work through were bubbling out, but he wasn't mad at her. He wasn't mad at the babies. In fact, Carol wasn't sure if Daryl even knew quite what he was mad about.

"The baby stuff is what tells us, Daryl," Carol offered softly. "See? Blankets and clothes and..." She smiled to herself. She picked up the small rabbit and offered it in Daryl's direction. "And sweet little bunnies for the babies."

Daryl took the rabbit. He held it in his hands and stared at with the same intensity that he'd been looking at everything else. With so much anger and frustration behind his gaze, Carol half expected the rabbit to speak and confess its sins to him. Then he sighed and his shoulders slumped forward almost like someone invisible had smacked him on the back to save him from choking on his rage. His face fell.

"It's all just mixed together," Daryl said. "Kind of an asshole thing to do."

And, suddenly, it hit Carol.

Daryl was exhausted and, in that exhaustion, he'd expected something practically black and white. He'd forgotten that sometimes there was room in the world for a little gray. Carol suddenly felt relieved. She walked over to the other crib and plucked the bunny out of it before she stepped to stand in front of Daryl who was still staring at the little pink one in his hand like it had betrayed him.

"Daryl," Carol said, "we're having twins, right?"

He looked at her and Carol couldn't decide if she wanted to frown because he looked crushed at the moment or smile because she knew that he was going to feel so much better as soon as he realized the error of his tired brain.

"Yeah," Daryl said.

Carol brushed her fingers against his cheek because she felt the sudden urge to touch him—to try to wipe away his disappointment even before she relieved it for him.

"Two babies," Carol said.

"I know that, Carol," Daryl said.

Carol nodded her head at him.

"What could we have gotten?" Carol asked. "What—did you think the babies might be?"

"Girls or boys, Carol, it ain't that complicated," Daryl said.

Carol laughed to herself and quickly stifled the laugh.

"Girls or boys," Carol repeated. "So two girls or—two boys."

Daryl nodded.

"But what else?" Carol asked.

"I'm hopin' to hell there ain't nothin' else," Daryl said. "Honestly? For a minute there they had me scared as shit as to what might be goin' on in there."

Carol shook her head at Daryl.

"What's the other combination?" Carol asked.

She reached and took the pink bunny out of Daryl's hand. She held the two up in front of him and danced them around, their floppy ears swinging side to side with her silly little dance.

Daryl stared at her, his brows furrowing again, and then very slowly the concern melted away and his frown lines softened. When he looked at Carol, his eyes widening slightly, Carol smiled at him and nodded her head.

"Uh huh," Carol said. "They didn't lie to us. We got one blue crib—with all little blue things. And we got one pink crib—with all little pink things. Because just boys or just girls? Apparently that wasn't good enough for you. You had go and be complicated and decide—you wanted both."

"You're serious?" Daryl asked.

"I'm serious," Carol said.

"I didn't even know—I really just was thinkin' they'd be the same thing," Daryl said. "Like—you know just..."

"Identical," Carol said. "But our babies were never going to be identical, Daryl. The way that Alice did this? Because—really she's the one that helped us get here. The way she did this was just make it so that, essentially, I got pregnant twice but—at the same time. Just like having two entirely different babies, just at the same time. They're brother and sister, but they aren't identical. And you—well, you stepped up to the test. She helped get it started and you got me pregnant...twice at the same time." Carol laughed to herself. "And you apparently weren't going to go with something as boring as two girls or just two boys."

Daryl laughed. He was breathing heavier than before, clearly relieved and, perhaps, a little excited.

"I don't know why the hell you say it was me," Daryl said. "Seems to me that you were in on it too."

"I'm just carrying them," Carol said. "But it's you who decided what they'd be."

"You serious?" Daryl asked.

Carol nodded.

"It's the Daddy who makes that decision," Carol said. "You don't really get in any say in it, but...it's, you know, your input that decides."

Daryl stared at her for a minute and then he laughed.

"Merle always said that Dixon men just made boys," Daryl said with a laugh.

"Well, he was half right," Carol said. "Because..." She wiggled the pink bunny at Daryl, making it do the dance from side to side. Daryl reached and took both the rabbits out of her hands. He held them in front of him for a second, admiring them. Then he opened his arms to Carol and she sunk into him and accepted his hug. "I wonder what Merle and Sadie will get," Carol said.

"A boy, I reckon," Daryl said. "If they's just one. I'm just hopin' to hell that it don't turn out to have the wild gene they lookin' for."

"I've got a feeling it won't," Carol said. "I've got a feeling—none of the babies will. Or maybe that's just wishful thinking."

Carol squeezed Daryl before she released him and then he put the rabbits back in their matching cribs before he took a moment to examine the other little items that had been placed around the room. Now understanding why the room was decked out in pink and blue, he looked a little more relaxed. And with that relaxation, Carol could see even more evidence of his exhaustion on his features.

"Are you happy, Daryl?" Carol asked. "That there's a boy and a girl?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Daryl asked.

"Because it's not what you wanted, maybe," Carol said. "I guess—it makes me a little nervous just to remember. Sophia's father wasn't too excited that she was a girl."

Daryl stopped examining items and came over to Carol. He rubbed his finger under her chin and then he kissed her, his hand sliding around to rub at the skin just behind her ear. When he pulled away, he shook his head at her.

"I like girls as much as I like boys," Daryl said. "One of my favorite people in the whole world—she just happens to be a girl. And on top of that? She's carryin' two of my kids—which happen to be a whole damn mixed bag."

Carol smiled at him.

"Sounds like you're pretty fond of her," Carol said.

"Pretty damn amazed by her, really," Daryl said. He swallowed. "Can't always breathe around her, but she don't hold it against me too much."

"Should I be jealous?" Carol asked.

"Would be pretty damn complicated," Daryl said. "I'll let you in on a secret—it's you."

Carol laughed.

"You're pretty impressive yourself," Carol said. "But—I'm going to beg you not to scare me again like you did this morning, OK? I don't want to lose you, Daryl. I can't lose you."

"I can't make no promises," Daryl said. "'Cause I meant what I said. I can't promise that nothin' never happens to you—but they gonna have to go through me first."

Carol sucked in a breath against the sharp pain that jolted through her chest at the thought. Daryl furrowed his brow at her.

"You OK?" He asked.

"I just don't—I don't want to lose you," Carol said.

"You ain't," Daryl said quickly. "You ain't. Just breathe, Carol. I'm right here. Not goin' anywhere."

Carol hugged him again and he stood there, in the brightly colored room designed to make them feel happy, and held her. And, slowly, Carol did feel her happiness returning, whether or not it had anything to do with the room.

"I'm really tired, Daryl," Carol said.

"Me too," Daryl agreed.

"Let's go lie down, for just a little while? Maybe you could—tell the babies a story about...everything that's happened today?" Carol offered.

Daryl rubbed her back and hummed at her.

"OK," he said. "But—I'm changin' it a little. There's just some shit they don't need to know. And—I'ma need your help, maybe, for just a little while. There's a lot you still gotta tell me about Sophia. So you gonna have to fill some of that in."

Carol rubbed her face against him.

"I'm pretty sure I can handle that," Carol said. "You just handle the rest."


	101. Chapter 101

**AN: Here we are, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"We're just not a hundred percent sure exactly what we're dealing with yet," Melodye said. "There's a lot that's always been somewhat...well...individual about it all. When you're dealing with trauma, stress...really anything like that? I can make generalizations, but that isn't going to always tell me what every single person is going through. For instance, many of you in the community have been through the same sorts of experiences, but everyone comes out of it a little different. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"That you don't know what's wrong with her?" Daryl asked.

Melodye laughed to herself.

"Not exactly," Melodye said. "I know what's wrong with her—and I think you do too. It doesn't take an advanced degree to know that she's been through a lot and it's—well, it's affected her. What I don't know is exactly how she's been affected or what that looks like in the long run. And I'm not willing to jump to too many conclusions when I can let Sophia show me what she's going through and how she's going to react to it."

"So you're saying she's just an individual," Carol said. "You're saying she's...basically that she's just Sophia?"

"That's essentially it," Melodye said. "Which I know sounds like saying a whole bunch of nothing. The thing is that I'm not ready to slap labels on her or say that she is something or that she's going to act some way. I don't want to jump into that until I've had some more time with Sophia. Something beyond one conversation that was very difficult because she wasn't in the best frame of mind."

"But she's OK?" Daryl asked.

"Physically, she's fine," Melodye said. "She's a little undernourished, perhaps, but that can be easily fixed. She's not been eating well for the family that's had her. I didn't see her living arrangements there, but Samirah informs that Sophia was basically being held in a room. Technically it was, in part, due to her refusal to try to join the family, but I also can't say that I believe the family made the best efforts possible to truly welcome Sophia into their lives. There are a few things, though, that I think you should understand before she gets here. That's why I really wanted the chance to speak to the two of you alone. Without Sophia present."

Carol sucked in a breath and, without looking, searched out Daryl's hand. Daryl found her hand and held it tight in his to offer her the comfort that she was clearly seeking.

"I just want to know if she's OK," Carol said. "That's—it's really all I want to know. And—maybe—how much should I prepare myself for maybe not the best news?"

Melodye put on the most sympathetic expression that Daryl had seen her paint on in a while. She shook her head at Carol.

"I don't think it's time to worry," Melodye said. "I didn't come here for you to worry. I came here to keep you from worrying, if anything, about anything you might notice. Sammi was the one that got Sophia to tell her who she was. She was the one that went with the guards to pick her up from the house. She thought that would ease the transition a bit and so far? It seems to help. Sophia will go with Sammi calmly, so that's better than expected. Sophia was examined and I tried to have a conversation with her. She's not quite ready to do much talking to me. I don't think she trusts me yet. Maybe she's not in a position where she wants to trust anyone too much just yet. I'm hoping that will change, but we can be patient. There are a few things you should probably know. Sophia is physically sixteen years old, but I'm not sure where she's at mentally. Not exactly. That's why we had them bring in some soft things to her room. Some things that she could love. We brought in some games and puzzles to just—stimulate her. There's not a lot of information out there on what's happened to Sophia since she was captured but we know that she's been with a couple of families and she was returned by each for being reported as too wild for them to handle. She's simply considered very much wild."

"There's no such thing," Carol breathed out, barely any sound to her voice.

"We don't believe there is," Melodye said, shaking her head. "The problem is that a lot of people do and we're putting together a list of everything that we believe falls under the blanket term of wild. Among that is—basically any action or reaction that isn't controlled or calm. Sophia reacts almost violently much of the time. She's—I hate to say it, but she's also timid. Skittish, even. Standoffish. She's quiet. I don't know if her language isn't developed or if she's just stopped using it. She shrieks and screams more than she speaks. Sammi can get her to speak to her occasionally, but it's usually simple speech and it's mostly surrounding whatever she's most concerned with at the moment. It's mostly you, Carol, that she's interested in speaking about."

"I taught her to speak," Carol said. "I promise. She could speak when...she could speak."

"You're not on trial," Melodye assured her. "And I'm certain that Sophia could speak. I'm certain that she can speak now. Sometimes, however, trauma can make someone regress. It's entirely possible that Sophia is in a state of regression. If her language has regressed, then, I have to assume that it's possible that she's regressed in other ways."

"She's not—developed?" Carol asked.

"Psychologically, she could be in a state of regression," Melodye repeated. "I'm not ready to say that Sophia is permanently what we see now. She may be entirely different after three minutes in your presence. She may take months or even years to, essentially, catch up with her chronological age. It's difficult to say if she's learned much or done much since she was captured. We don't know if she's been denied the ability to move beyond her years with you in addition to the regression."

"What the hell does all this shit mean?" Daryl asked. On more than one occasion he'd asked Melodye to cut the psychobabble that she used. He didn't understand it and he knew it wasn't necessary. It was that doctor bullshit of not wanting anyone to say that she hadn't said something quite right or that she hadn't painted the picture perfectly. These days, Daryl was pretty sure that not a single damn person in the community was interested in getting the perfect picture as long as they got something they could understand. For most of them, this was a case of their lives. The only details that were really truly important were the ones that were going to keep them alive and as whole as possible. "Just give it to us straight. What the hell does this mean for Sophia?"

Melodye looked at Carol.

"Just—tell us the truth," Carol said. "It doesn't matter how you say it."

"Sophia might not mentally be quite at her age," Melodye said.

"How old is she?" Carol asked. "Mentally, I mean?"

"Hard to tell," Melodye said. "She could be sixteen and hiding it. She could be—seven or eight. She might have regressed to four or five. It's all a matter of figuring it out as we go along. She doesn't speak much, but I have a hunch that will change as she gets comfortable."

"So what do we do?" Carol asked.

"The same thing you were going to do anyway," Melodye said. "You love her. You love her unconditionally. Whether her changes happen fast or slow, you love her. And—be patient with her. Know that she doesn't want to anger you or frustrate you. She's dealing with a lot herself and she maybe doesn't know how to deal with it and isn't ready to ask for help just yet."

"I wouldn't care," Carol said. "I love her any way she is. Any way she turns out to be. I'm going to love her. She's my baby and she'll always be my baby."

"And that's an excellent attitude," Melodye said. "Honestly? That's absolutely what I wanted to hear when I came here. But—I also want you to make sure you're looking out for yourself. Don't let yourself get too stressed or ignored."

"Don't'cha worry about that," Daryl said quickly. "I ain't gonna let Carol get hurt. I ain't gonna let Sophia get hurt."

Melodye pointed her finger at him.

"You watch out for you, too," Melodye said. "That stunt you pulled with the chair? You better be glad it was Alice and me. You better be glad that we weren't coming on something official. They would have shot you, Daryl. Dead. They would have killed Carol, too, just for having been in your presence. If you were willing to act out like that? They'd be sure that she was wiling too. They beat Andrea for holding a bottle of juice. How much more violently do you think they'd react to an actual threat?"

"I get your point," Daryl said. "But—I ain't gonna let'cha just march in here and drag..."

Daryl stopped. What was he going to say? Drag my wife away? Carol wasn't his wife. Technically, he had no "claim" to her of any sort. She was, according to the project, his "breeding partner" and nothing more. He could say his "family," but even that might not be actually true. How he felt and how they saw things could be entirely different. He swallowed and shook his head.

"Weren't gonna let'cha take her," Daryl said. "Not without a fuckin' fight."

"And a fucking fight will get your fucking ass killed," Melodye said, putting extra emphasis on each "fucking" that she used. "So don't do it. Anything we have to do? We have to do it. It's under penalty of law. That's for all of us. If Alice refuses to do it? She'll be deemed wild herself. They're currently exterminating all new Wilds or Wilds deemed not fit for assimilation. Do you understand that, Daryl? Do you know what that means?"

"Means we're all gonna die?" Daryl asked.

"If we don't play by the rules," Melodye said.

"What about Sophia?" Carol asked. "If they think she's wild..."

"She's being dealt with a little differently," Melodye said. "She's a person of special interest to Milton and is therefore protected. All the children are. It means that nobody is allowed to...to exterminate them unless they're an active threat. I explained a little of the project to her because I believe she can understand us just fine. You'll explain it a little bit more. The rules apply—at least our rules. She needs to talk to me. She needs to cooperate with me so I can help her and help you. Maggie will want to evaluate her, so she'll need to be on her best behavior. Even if she's quiet and doesn't have much to offer, that's fine, but she needs to at least stay as calm as she can."

Carol nodded her head.

"When does she get here?" Carol asked.

"As soon as I radio Sammi," Melodye said. "She's in a car right now outside the gates with one of the new guards that's coming in. He's Willomen. He's a...he's a real intimidating guy. Size-wise, I mean to say. He's practically a giant. But I've known him for years. He's a real gentle giant, if you know what I mean. Milton's brought him in to be a special guard for the children and the families whose children are being returned to them. The idea is that he can control the children, if necessary, without the use of any unnecessary force. You're going to be seeing a lot of him, but you don't have anything to fear from him. At least—not for any undue reason. He doesn't believe in the whole Wild theory."

Carol nodded.

"I understand," she said. "Can I see her, please?"

Melodye nodded.

"Of course," Melodye said. "Just remember—lots of love, understanding, and patience, OK?"

"We got it by the bucketful," Daryl offered, practically feeling that Carol was starting to get restless over the fact that her daughter was so close and yet still so far away.

"Just—maybe don't push her too much to talk about what she's been through," Melodye said. "Not right away. Let her go at her own pace. For now? Just welcome her here. Let her feel like she's home. Like she's got a place. A safe one."

"I understand," Carol said.

"We both do," Daryl offered. "Go ahead, just—take your lil' radio there an' push the button."

Melodye laughed to herself and raised her radio. She wiggled it at Daryl to tease him about his instruction and then she did push the button.

"Sam? Where are you? Do you copy?" Meloyde asked.

There was static as a response for a moment and then Samirah's voice.

"We're at the gate," Samirah responded. "We just entered the community. Are you with—them?"

Melodye didn't push the button immediately.

"We can't say your name, Carol, because Sophia gets a little uncontrollable whenever we do," Melodye said.

"Get her on here an' we'll deal with the uncontrollable," Daryl offered.

"I'm handling this," Melodye said with a laugh. She raised her eyebrows at Daryl. "Do you want to do my job for me?"

"Right about now I do," Daryl responded.

Melodye laughed to herself and shook her head. She brought the radio back up to her mouth.

"I'm with them, Sam," Melodye said. "We're ready for reintroduction. Bring Willomen with you when you come in."

"Copy that," Samirah said. "We'll be there in a couple of minutes. Have the door open so we can move quickly inside. I think it's better if they stay out of sight just until we get in the door. There are guards out and we don't want anyone getting too stirred up."

"I hear you," Melodye said. "Loud and clear. Come on. I'll have the door open."

Melodye stood up and smiled.

"Let's get ready," Melodye said. "Round one of Wave Thirty Three Homecoming is about to begin."


	102. Chapter 102

**AN: Here we are, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

There wasn't much that Daryl could do, so he did the only thing that he felt able to do. He physically held onto Carol. He didn't know what to expect. He didn't know how the reunion would go. He honestly didn't know what to expect from Sophia. So he held onto Carol so that, if anything happened, he could at least do his best to prevent her from getting hurt or hurting herself in whatever might unfold.

Samirah brought the girl up the porch steps to the new house. Outside, Daryl could hear her comforting the girl as she came. She spoke in the voice that was usually reserved for calming small children.

Wasn't it exciting? She was going to be able to have whatever she wanted. Carol pulled away from Daryl a little when he heard the girl respond with only the word that was, perhaps, the most precious to Carol's ears: Mama. He held tight to Carol. Yes. Mama. Sophia would have that too if only she'd come calmly up the steps and into the house where she must have been at least a little reluctant to go.

As soon as Samirah stepped inside the door, though, leading Sophia along with her, there was no need for her to coax Sophia any further. Sophia saw her mother and ran to her, practically taking Carol and Daryl both to the ground. Daryl held to Carol and when she started to go down, her knees betraying her, and he eased her down so that her descent was soft and smooth instead of hard and abrupt.

Immediately they were a tangle of limbs on the floor. It was difficult to tell where Carol ended and her daughter began. Both were sobbing and the noises that they made were unintelligible to Daryl. Sure that Carol was safe on the floor for the moment, and that the young woman who was her daughter wasn't a physical threat to her, Daryl let go of her and backed away to allow them a moment.

Melodye had closed the door and she was simply watching what was happening. Near the door, Samirah was standing with the man that must be the one that Melodye had called Willomen. Daryl made a wide loop around Carol and Sophia and approached the two of them.

"You do this?" Daryl asked, keeping his voice low. It appeared that Carol—caught up in apologizing profusely to her daughter over and over—and Sophia—simply crying and repeating the one word that was most precious to her over and over—had forgotten entirely that they weren't alone in the room. Daryl didn't want to speak loudly enough to interrupt that for them.

"I did and I didn't," Samirah said. "I found Sophia. But if it weren't for Milton, I never would've been able to get the children back. His pull with this project is the only thing stronger than the law right now in a lot of situations."

"You done good," Daryl said. "You think she's gonna be OK?"

Samirah smiled to herself.

"I think she's going to be fine," Samirah said. "She's just—so lonely and so desperate." She shrugged her shoulders. "She missed her Mama. I can understand."

"You miss yours?" Daryl asked.

"Don't you?" Samirah asked.

Daryl swallowed.

"Not like that, I don't," Daryl said. "Want that—that kinda love though. For my kids. It's clear Carol's a good one to give it."

Samirah hummed and Daryl watched Carol and Sophia on the floor. The crying and the words were quieting, but their desperate clinging to one another hadn't eased yet. Daryl wondered if it would ease any time soon or if they'd spend the whole rest of the day locked up together in the sheer disbelief that the other was alive.

Daryl turned his attention to the giant—because Melodye hadn't exaggerated when she'd described him as such—and offered him a hand.

"You must be Willomen," Daryl said.

The man was somewhere in the neighborhood of seven foot tall and he looked to be the kind of man who could eat what Daryl would consider a regular sized meal as a snack or an appetizer. Despite his size, though, he wasn't exactly overweight. There was simply more of him than Daryl normally saw on any one man. He was much darker skinned than Daryl and he had long, curly black hair that was braided back and tied just at the back of his neck where the curls bunched up beneath the band that was holding them back. When he took Daryl's hand in his, his hand swallowed Daryl's hand entirely.

If Melodye hadn't told him there was nothing to fear, Daryl would have been at least a little nervous in the man's presence.

"I am," Willomen said, his voice every bit as deep as Daryl expected it to be.

"You don't believe in us bein' Wilds?" Daryl asked.

The man smiled at him, showing Daryl almost all of his teeth.

"I believe everyone's wild," Willomen said. "When they have to be. So—yes and no. I don't believe there's anything that sets you apart from everyone else, if that's what you're asking."

Daryl laughed to himself.

"I guess that's what I'm asking," Daryl said. He looked the giant man up and down again. Though Daryl was inclined to believe what the man said—that everyone could possibly be "wild" if that was what was required of them—he didn't exactly want to imagine what it might look like if the man in front of him were to be backed into a corner badly enough that he was forced to show his own wildness.

"You're—here for the children?" Daryl asked, laughing to himself at the thought of this gigantic man tending to little children.

"Is that funny?" Willomen asked.

Daryl shrugged his shoulders.

"You're just—you're just about ten times their size," Daryl said. "That's all. Gotta be—overkill."

The man laughed to himself.

"I love children," he said.

"You don't mind my sayin', but I woulda thought that was because you was grindin' their bones to make your bread," Daryl said. "If you catch my drift."

"I caught it," Willomen said. "But—I'm disappointed." Daryl raised his eyebrows at him in question and the man laughed to himself. "That's not very original. I thought you could do better than that."

Daryl laughed to himself.

Carol and Sophia were calming now. The initial wave was passing. Sophia was still hugging tight to Carol, but Carol was starting to look around. She was starting to become aware again that she was in the presence of others.

"It's OK, sweetheart," she repeated several times before she really started to break with the repetitive nature of the initial encounter. "It's OK. You're here. You're here and you're safe. I've got you. I've got you—and I'm not going to let them get you. Never again. It's OK. Mama's here."

Now that Daryl could understand the words, they struck him. It felt like a blunt object hit him in the chest. He'd known Sophia was coming and they'd talked about it, but it was different now that it was actually happening. It was different now that he could see Carol, legs folded under her, sitting on the floor with her daughter.

Sophia was her daughter. She was as much her baby as the babies she was carrying. She was a part of her past. She was a part that Carol had believed that she'd lost forever. Just like his brother coming back when Daryl was certain he was dead, Sophia was a living ghost of flesh and blood in Carol's arms.

It was all very real, suddenly, to Daryl.

Daryl walked over, making a wide loop again so as to not startle the girl, and walked behind Carol. He put his hand on her shoulder on the side where Sophia wasn't pressing her face.

"You want me to help you up?" Daryl asked. "Get y'all on your feet? So you can—show her the house? Her room?"

Carol glanced at him and nodded her head.

Slowly she started to peel her daughter off of her. Sophia clung tighter at the sensation of Carol pulling away, though, and let out a scream in response that had to at least partially deafen Carol for a moment. Daryl jumped and he could see that he wasn't the only one in the room to have the same reaction.

"It's OK, sweetheart," Carol assured her daughter. "Let's stand up. You want to stand up? We'll show you the house. You haven't met Daryl yet. He's just going to help us stand up, OK? You're not going anywhere and I'm not going anywhere. Never again. Not without each other, OK?"

Sophia accepted Carol's words, or she must have, because she pulled away from Carol. Daryl caught Carol under the arms and helped her get to her feet. He held her against him for a moment, worried that her legs might have fallen asleep in the uncomfortable position that she'd been in on the floor.

Then he noticed Sophia, with her face tear-streaked and her hair stuck to it, watching him.

Daryl swallowed. As soon as he was sure that Carol was steady on her feet, he let her stand on her own. Letting go of Carol, he offered a hand in Sophia's direction. She stared at his upturned palm.

"Come on," Daryl said. "I'll help you up, too."

Sophia looked like she had to consider it, so Daryl gave her the time that she needed. Everyone around them was quiet enough that Daryl might have forgotten they were there if he weren't entirely aware of their presence.

Sophia finally reached her hand out and put her hand in his. She let him help her to her feet, but as soon as she was on her feet, she was back in her mother's arms, leaning against Carol with her head on her shoulder. At least, this time, she was quiet and had finally stopped shedding the tears that had poured out of her before.

"I'm Daryl," Daryl offered to Sophia. She simply stared at him in response. "It's OK," Daryl offered. "We got time for introductions. I live here too. With your Ma." Sophia continued to stare at him, and Carol simply gave Daryl a look that begged something from him—and he was entirely willing to give it to her. Patience, understanding, and kindness to her daughter was likely what she was asking him for, and if Carol needed it, Daryl had it to offer.

Carol walked toward Samirah and Willomen with Sophia holding to her. Sophia moved along with her like any small child might that was determined not to break their hold on the person from whom they were drawing comfort and security.

"I don't know how to thank you," Carol said to Samirah.

"I don't want thanks," Samirah said, shaking her head. "I didn't do anything that shouldn't have been done years ago." She glanced at Sophia. "Sophia's been—so excited to see you."

Carol smiled.

"I don't think excited even begins to cover it for me," Carol said. She sucked in a breath and let it out. "It's been—so long."

"Too long," Samirah said.

"It never should have happened," Melodye offered, walking over. "But there's nothing any of us can do to turn back the clocks. All we can do is move forward. Do just what we're doing. We're going to get out of here. Get out of your hair and let—let you start settling in."

"I don't know you," Carol said, quickly turning her attention to Willomen.

"You'll know me," Willomen said. "If you need me, I'll be around."

"He'll be reachable by phone," Melodye said. "If you can't just see him? Call. We'll have him sent if you need him. He's here to handle anything. For a little while? We're requesting that you don't take Sophia anywhere in the community without Willomen present. Also? Nobody's allowed to come into the home without him here unless it's someone that we already know Sophia trusts and can be comfortable with. So—right now? I'd say that's Sammi. Al and I will bring Willomen with us for a little while, just until Sophia gets to know us a bit better."

"Thank you," Carol said. "Thank—all of you. You brought my little girl back to me."

"Thank us by taking care of her," Melodye said. She looked at Daryl and then back at Carol. "Thank us by—by proving that Sophia is just a little girl. OK? Not—not what people said she was."

"We got that already," Daryl offered. He didn't miss the smile that Carol gave him for his confidence in her daughter, perhaps. The smile was worth whatever they had to do.

"I'm going to give you a little time," Melodye said. "I'm supposed to be paying house visits every day. Just—coming in and making sure that everything's going well. I'm going to give you a little time, though, to settle in without interrupting. The day after tomorrow? I'll stop in and see how you're doing."

"Anything you need," Samirah said, "just call it in. Meals and everything, just like always."

Carol thanked them again and then Daryl thanked them before they saw them out of the house and closed the door behind them, ready to begin the new adventure of getting to know Sophia—Daryl for the first time and Carol all over again.


	103. Chapter 103

**AN: Here we are, another chapter here.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Daryl could hear Carol talking to Sophia in the bedroom that the girl would call her own. At the moment, Carol was keeping the conversation as simple as possible. This was their house. They would all live there together. They wouldn't have to move around anymore—as Sophia probably spent most of the first part of her life doing—and nobody was going to come and take Sophia away ever again.

Daryl made a call about their meal deliveries and gave Carol and Sophia a little space to breathe without him around. When he'd dawdled about as much as he could without being obvious, Daryl made his way to Sophia's room and peeked in. Sophia was clinging to Carol, still, like she was afraid that her mother was going to vanish into thin air of she allowed her even an inch of room between them for breathing. Rather than sit comfortably on the bed or anything of the like, the two of them were standing in the middle of the room while Carol continued to reassure her daughter that everything was fine. This was a safe and comfortable place.

"It's your room," Carol urged again, possibly hoping for just enough distance from her daughter to be able to take a full breath of air. "Everything in here is yours. And anything you want? Sweetheart—we'll get that for you too."

Daryl noticed something cross Sophia's face just before she seemed to tighten her grip on Carol, bringing an expression across Carol's face that said that Sophia's hold on her was really becoming quite suffocating and at least a little uncomfortable.

Daryl cleared his throat and tapped at the doorframe to draw the attention of both of them. Sophia looked at him suspiciously. Carol looked at him like she was silently begging him for help. He'd do what he could do, but he wasn't sure how much help he'd really be to either of them.

"Ordered some lunch," Daryl said. "It'll be here 'fore long. Thought we could sit at the table? All of us? Like a family? Ordered some snacks too, Sophia. I didn't know what you might like. What kinda snacks you like?"

Sophia just stared at him. Daryl wasn't sure if she didn't understand the question or she just didn't want to answer him, but the fact remained that she gave him nothing. Daryl nodded his head at her.

"That's OK," he said. "You can try what we got. See what'cha might like. Gotta eat lunch first, though. Sittin' at the table with your Ma an' me. Like—like a family."

"Do you remember, sweetheart?" Carol asked. "Some of the houses we used to find to stay in would have tables. Do you remember that? When we would sit and eat something across the table from one another? Have you done that? Since I saw you?"

Sophia loosened her grip on Carol just a bit, but she didn't pull away from her entirely. Instead, she dipped her face and rubbed her cheek against Carol's shoulder. Carol affectionately patted her daughter's head.

"Would you like that?" Carol asked. "To eat together?"

Daryl nipped at his thumb. He considered ways they might win Sophia's trust enough to get her talking. They had a lot they needed to say to her, but there was no use in diving into any of it if they couldn't get her comfortable enough to even relinquish her hold on Carol for a few moments.

They had no idea what all Sophia had seen and experienced. They only knew a little from the latest chapter of her life, and what they knew wasn't pleasant at all.

"Sophia—this is your room," Daryl said. "But just because it's your room, it doesn't mean that it's the only room you get to go in. You got full reign of the house. The whole thing. The whole place. It's your home. You're free to go where you wanna go an' do what'cha wanna do in the house. You know that, right? You know that I'm—I'm here to take care of your Ma. Take care of you. But—nobody's gonna make you just stay put in here."

Sophia clearly had an interest in those words. Something Daryl had said struck her. It resonated with her in some way. She might not be sharing, exactly, what it was that had gotten her attention, but there was certainly something.

She let go of Carol. She didn't move away from her, and she didn't put some great amount of distance between them, but she stopped clinging to her for a moment.

Carol looked at Daryl and raised her eyebrows. The corners of her lips followed suit.

"You want to have some lunch?" Carol asked. "Daryl ordered us something good to eat and then—maybe we could do something fun? Play a game or...?"

Carol shrugged at Daryl like she was looking for guidance. She'd gotten Sophia to calm down and stop slipping back into waves of sobbing, but it was Daryl who had managed to read the girl's mind enough to get her to let go of Carol's arm and take what looked like the first steps toward independence.

Maybe, together, they really would be able to figure this out.

"Play a game," Daryl echoed. "Or work a puzzle. Melodye an' Sammi—you remember her? Your friend, Sammi? They brought you in some puzzles and—well there's a whole mess of toys over there. Big ole basket full. Whatever you want. After we eat some lunch we could do whatever it is that you think you might like to do. We could do a couple things if you want. We got all day. Tomorrow, too."

Sophia nodded her head.

"Yeah?" Daryl asked.

Sophia nodded again and Carol, this time, was the one who put her hands on her daughter. She affectionately squeezed Sophia's shoulders and Sophia quickly dropped her cheek against Carol's hand.

"Would you like that?" Carol asked.

"Yes, Mama," Sophia responded.

Daryl felt his own chest tighten in response to the expression on Carol's face. They were just two simple words not said in the heat of some kind of passion, but it was a start.

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"We have to tell her about the babies," Carol said.

She was barely speaking above a whisper. For the first time ever, they had a reason to keep their voices down. In one of the other rooms, not too far away from them, Sophia was sleeping.

Their day had been pretty low-key—all things considered. They'd stuck to staying inside with Sophia so that she wouldn't be overwhelmed with the comings and goings of Woodbury. They'd had their meals delivered and they'd spent all their time together. They'd worked one large puzzle that had been given to Sophia and, together, they'd discovered how to play a board game that was, in Daryl's opinion, far more complicated than it had needed to be.

Sophia hadn't been chatty in the slightest, but by the end of the evening she'd started to relax some. By the end of the evening, she'd started to smile and laugh. She'd been particularly fond of Daryl's playful complaints about the board game so he'd been sure to make a few more of them than was necessary for her benefit. Sophia had eaten well at both meals that had been delivered to them and she'd allowed Carol to somewhat "chaperone" her bath to make sure that she remembered how to clean herself well. Dressed in the pajamas that they'd brought for her, she'd curled up with Carol on their couch and she'd watched the "news" with Carol and Daryl as they checked their one station to make sure that they hadn't missed any important community announcements throughout the course of the day. Then, at the end of it all, Sophia had allowed Daryl to read to her from a book while Carol had curled up with her in her bed.

She'd finally fallen asleep.

Daryl and Carol had their first taste of parenthood together, and Daryl wasn't hating it. It wasn't exactly how he'd imagined their first day as parents might go, but he wasn't complaining either.

Daryl pulled back the cover on the bed and laughed to himself before he sat down on his side of the bed.

"What's so funny?" Carol asked.

Daryl shook his head.

"Just—I think she can prob'ly tell about the babies, Carol," Daryl said. "You ain't got much, but you got you a lil'—somethin' there. A pouch or somethin'."

Carol laughed to herself.

"A pouch, Daryl?" Carol asked.

Daryl shrugged his shoulders.

"Call it what'cha want," Daryl said. "But it's kinda like a pouch. It's all filled up with our young'uns right now."

Carol sighed and sat down. She eased herself under the cover and got situated. Daryl waited until he was sure that she was comfortable and satisfied before he moved to get close to her. She lifted her head to allow him to put his arm under her neck and she curled into him. With her hand, she moved his hand to cover the "pouch" that they'd been discussing. Daryl moved his hand only long enough to slip it under the cloth of the shirt she was wearing so that his fingers could caress her bare skin.

"I don't think Sophia really knows anything about babies," Carol said. "I don't think she really knows about being pregnant or—having babies. When we were out there, we were alone. There wasn't any reason to tell her about it. I certainly wasn't pregnant and there wasn't anybody for her to see that was pregnant. There was nothing to make her curious. I never got around to having any kind of birds and bees conversation with her, Daryl. I don't have any way of knowing what she knows, either. I don't know if anyone else ever bothered to tell her anything."

Daryl hummed at her.

"Hadn't thought of that," Daryl admitted. "Just thought—with her age..."

He didn't finish because he realized the problem with his assumptions even as he started to explain himself. Carol smiled at him softly, her eyes darting quickly back and forth as she studied his face.

"She wasn't this old," Carol said. "And I didn't know that I was preparing her to face the world without me. Not yet. We were doing OK. I thought I had time before—before something would happen and she'd be on her own."

Daryl brought his hand out from under the cover and touched it to Carol's lips. She puckered against it before he moved to stroke her cheek and tuck a stray lock of silver hair behind her ear.

"You wouldn'ta had no reason to think this coulda happened," Daryl said. "But it don't matter."

"It does matter," Carol said.

Daryl shook his head.

"It don't," he insisted. "What happened out there? What happened since? It don't matter. We ain't gonna waste our time focusing on it. We're just gonna focus on what we're doin' now, right? That's all the hell that we got promised to us is right now. We'll focus on now an' we'll think about later and we don't waste our time with worryin' about what's behind us. So...Sophia don't know about babies. So what? We'll tell her about babies. Tomorrow. We'll start small. Tell her that you're pregnant. Just tell her the babies are in there. If she don't show no interest, we don't push it. If she does, we talk about whatever she wants to talk about. Might be a way to get her talking, at least."

"What if she doesn't react well?" Carol asked. "What if she's mad or upset?"

"What's she got to be mad or upset about?" Daryl asked. "Samirah said she already told her some about this project. You don't even know if she mighta told Sophia all about the babies. She mighta told her already that we didn't have no say in this."

"She still might be mad, Daryl," Carol insisted.

Daryl laughed to himself.

"She might," he agreed. "And if that's how she feels about it? We'll deal with that too. Hell, we've all been mad about things since the world turned upside down. We've all learned to deal with bein' mad. Maybe Sophia hasn't learned to deal with it yet, but she will. She's gotta learn."

Carol sucked in a breath and let it out.

"You didn't have any choice in any of this," Carol said. "Not in—the babies or Sophia. You didn't have any choice in—in ending up with this to handle."

Daryl shook his head quickly at her.

"You're treadin' into territory that I don't like," Daryl said. "I didn't choose this and neither did you. You didn't choose for nothin' to happen the way it is. Me either. And I'm sorry that it had to be this way. I'm sorry that Sophia's got a lot she's gotta deal with. I'm sorry you got a lot you gotta deal with that you prob'ly just swallowin' down right now for her benefit and...maybe for mine,too. But what I ain't sorry for is that she's back. You got her back."

Carol lowered her voice even more than it had been before. When she spoke it was barely more than the escape of air.

"She's not your daughter," Carol said. "You shouldn't have to be responsible for her."

Daryl swallowed.

"I don't have to be," Daryl said. "I wanna be. She's your daughter. And—if she don't have any real complaint about it, maybe she'll be mine too. We'll talk to her about it."

Carol smiled at him, the corners of her mouth barely turning upward. She trailed her fingers over Daryl's arm and sent a shiver down his back at the tickle of the tender touch.

"You really want that?" Carol asked. "You're not just saying that?"

"We'll talk to her about it tomorrow," Daryl said as his only answer to the question. "We gotta get some sleep tonight, though, 'cause there ain't no telling what tomorrow's gonna hold."


	104. Chapter 104

**AN: Here we go, another chapter here.**

 **This one is a little longer because I had to get to a good place to cut it before we continue on.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Carol was finally asleep and it didn't matter to Daryl if it was almost time to start the morning or not. He intended to let her get whatever sleep she could before some fit of wakefulness took over again. Daryl slipped out of the bed as quietly as he could so that he wouldn't wake her. He dressed and left the room, closing the door carefully behind him.

They weren't allowed outside just yet, but Daryl could tell by looking out the window that Woodbury was starting to come awake. Their new house had a better view of the entrance to Woodbury than their old house had. The earliest workers were moving around. Guards were arriving. They would already be preparing breakfast for the community. Soon they would begin the rounds to open all the houses so that everyone could come out and start their day.

Daryl took advantage of being awake early to order breakfast and make a few calls. He didn't have to hold and he didn't have to wait. The official side of Woodbury was awake, but most of the citizens were still sleeping.

In their kitchen, Daryl started a pot of coffee, lit a cigarette, and leaned against the kitchen island while he smoked. With a pencil, he worked at a crossword puzzle from a book of puzzles. He was so involved in trying to figure out his next clue that he almost didn't realize he had a visitor. She was quiet enough, too, that he might not have noticed her presence at all if she hadn't sneezed.

Daryl looked up and smiled at her.

"Bless you," he offered. "An' good morning. How'd you sleep?"

Daryl didn't expect a reply, and he wasn't surprised.

"Cup of coffee?" Daryl asked. "That'll be brewed soon. It ain't bad coffee. I'd offer you a cigarette, but I don't think your Ma would appreciate that."

"Mama?" Sophia asked.

That word seemed to be one of the few that Sophia had mastered. Daryl figured that she knew a great deal more than that, of course, but for whatever reason she wasn't ready to share with them—not with any of them—the full extent of her knowledge and understanding. But Daryl could be patient. That's what Sophia needed from everyone and that's what Carol needed, in particular, from Daryl. He could offer patience. Their lives, these days, had taught them patience. There was no need to be in a hurry for anything. Nothing was going to happen any faster than it was simply going to happen.

Daryl moved his book away and put down the pencil to focus on the cigarette and somewhat limited conversation.

"She's sleeping," Daryl said. "Had a rough night. Couldn't quite get to sleep an' then? Couldn't quite stay asleep. She was havin' some nightmares. Bad dreams. You ever have those?" Daryl waited a moment to see if Sophia would respond. She didn't say anything to him, but she did nod her head. Daryl smiled at her and nodded his head in response. "They're shit for all of us, ain't they? Dreams are one place you just can't protect yourself. Damnedest thing is that you're needin' to protect yourself from yourself, but you can't. You're just stuck there. Long as I've known your Ma she's had these nightmares. Most of 'em have been that she couldn't find you. Couldn't get to you. Bad shit. The ones last night—she didn't tell me about 'em. I'm sure she'll tell me about 'em later. Did you have nightmares last night?" She shook her head, but she offered him nothing more. "You sleep OK?" Daryl asked. He got a nod. At least he was getting some response.

Daryl made himself a cup of coffee and glanced over his shoulder at Sophia.

"You want coffee?" He asked. "It's decaf. Your Ma don't need the caffeine right now. Not good for her. It's just about flavored water. You ever had coffee?" Sophia shook her head and Daryl got another mug. He poured some coffee in it and set about preparing it for Sophia. "I'm gonna fix it like I like it—with everything in it. Your Ma don't like sugar in hers." Daryl laughed to himself. "I tell her that's 'cause she's already sweet enough, but I could use some sweetening up. You might not need it, but it'll cut the bitter."

Daryl offered Sophia her coffee mug by putting it on the island in front of her. She stared at it a moment, but he supposed that she'd eventually pick it up. He drank from his own cup and she followed suit. She made a face and Daryl laughed to himself.

"Does that mean you don't like it?" Daryl asked. "It's an acquired taste, I guess. Some people don't never like it. You don't want it, you don't gotta drink it. You won't hurt my feelings."

Sophia put the mug down. Clearly she didn't care for the coffee at all. She looked around like she was taking in every square inch of the kitchen and then her eyes settled on Daryl again.

"Mama?" She asked.

"I told you she was sleepin'," Daryl said. "Still sleeping. You hungry? I called in breakfast already. They'll be bringin' it by for all of us when they get it made. If we can, I'd rather we didn't wake your Mama up until breakfast. Or until she gets up on her own, whichever comes first."

Sophia nodded her seeming agreement to Daryl's plan. Daryl thanked her and then focused on his coffee while he chewed over what he might say to her next. It appeared the full weight of carrying the conversation was on Daryl's shoulders.

"I don't know if I make you nervous 'cause you don't know me or—'cause you're at that point right now when everybody makes you nervous," Daryl said. "I know that point. I was there. In prison. When you're in prison, though, you kinda go from everything makin' you nervous to gettin' where you just don't give a damn. You're damned if you do an' you're damned if you don't. They say don't do this or that and you gonna be alright, but it ain't true. You try to follow all their rules, but the rules just keep changin' on you. Here though? I mean—I'm on edge. Hell, you gonna be. Forever, I guess. Maybe that don't never go away. Not completely. But it's different here than it was in prison. Shit changes, of course it do, but it don't change as much. Some of 'em around here—they tell it to you straight. Straight as they can, I reckon. The rest of us? The people that live here? We're all in the same boat." Daryl held Sophia's eyes for a moment. "They think I'm just as wild as you are. And I know, just as good as you do, that we ain't nothin' but people. I know you're nothin' to be scared of. You gotta know I'm nothin' to be scared of. I live here. I try to take care of ya Ma when she lets me. I'll take care of you, too, if you'll let me. Just—Sophia, I'll get you whatever you need. Do whatever I can for you. Long as it's in my power. I don't got much of that around here. Power. Just—I'm just askin' you to be on my side. Ya know? Don't do anything to try to—push me out or nothing. Be on my side and I'ma be on yours. And we gonna both be on your Ma's. That's—that's really all I'm askin' from you."

Sophia stared at him, hard. Her eyes were a different color than Carol's eyes, even if they were the same shape. Their differing color was evidence of the man that had fathered Sophia—a man that she wouldn't remember because she'd barely known him. They were evidence of a man that Carol had once loved. A man that Carol had told Daryl about. A man that Daryl would never meet and he was grateful for that because, knowing what he'd heard from Carol, this was a man who had taught Carol about torture long before her days at Region Thirty Three had begun.

He was a man that Daryl might have liked to kill if he were letting the so-called wild side of himself act as it felt driven to act. The world had long since taken care of the man for Daryl, though, so he'd never get the chance to find out how he might act in his presence.

Despite his presence in her eyes, though, Daryl would never hold Sophia's old man against her because he knew that old men were, sometimes, not much good for anything at all. He also knew that, in cases like that, nobody wanted their old man to be used against them.

Daryl had his father's eyes.

And with those eyes, Daryl held Sophia's for as long as she held his. Finally, she nodded her head gently.

"OK," she said.

Daryl smiled to himself.

"OK," he echoed. "Now that we on the same team—you wanna talk about breakfast? Maybe help me do somethin' special for your Ma? Somethin' to make up for them nightmares she was havin' all last night?"

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Giving Sophia a job to do hadn't healed her of whatever scars she was carrying around, but it had certainly done something for her morale. She had eaten breakfast with Daryl while Carol slept and then, when Daryl gave her the go ahead, she'd carried Carol's food into the bedroom while Daryl had come behind her with Carol's coffee.

The wake-up call was clearly unexpected by Carol, but she lit up over seeing her daughter first thing in the morning. Her happiness only grew when she realized she'd been brought breakfast in bed.

She'd thanked Daryl warmly, but he'd directed her to thank Sophia. Maybe Carol knew what he was doing, but she pretended that she believed it had all been Sophia's idea and she thanked her daughter with a hug and a kiss.

Sophia had curled up next to her mother in the bed—clearly the place she'd been thinking about being all morning—and kept Carol company while she ate her breakfast. Daryl sat, cross-legged, on his side of the bed and kept watch over the two of them. When Carol had finished eating and had offered her dishes over to him to move away from the bed, Daryl assumed it was time to finally start discussing the things that they simply needed to cover.

Daryl cleared his throat and drew the attention of both Sophia and Carol.

"Sophia—I know you don't want to talk much, but I believe that...I believe that'cha can understand more'n you're willin' to say," Daryl said. "So—there's somethin' we gotta tell you. An' you might not be ready to talk about it right now, but you can think about 'til you ready to talk about an' then..." Daryl stopped and looked at Carol. She was staring at him. She was giving him the floor right now. She was leaving it all there for him to handle, at least until she felt like she needed to step in. "When you ready to talk about, Sophia, we're here to talk about it."

Sophia furrowed her brow and looked quickly between Daryl and Carol. She sat more upright and Carol quickly wrapped her arm around her to soothe her and offer her some comfort.

"It's nothing bad, sweetheart," Carol said. "It's nothing bad. It's something—very, very good. It's something that makes us very happy."

"We just hopin' it makes you every bit as happy as it makes us," Daryl offered.

He sat there for a moment, but the words weren't coming out. Carol didn't seem to know what to say either. They'd assumed that it would simply flow for them when they started, but it didn't. Daryl finally unfolded his legs and got off the bed. He slipped into Sophia's room and looked around. Out of the piles of things they'd brought for the girl, it wasn't difficult to put his hands on what he was searching for. He picked it up, examined it by turning it over in his hands, and then he brought it into the room where Carol and Sophia were waiting on him. Instead of circling around the bed to get back in his original spot, Daryl sat on the edge of the bed nearest Carol and Sophia. He offered the baby doll to Sophia and she took it.

"You know what that is?" Daryl asked.

Sophia nodded her head.

"What is it?" Daryl asked.

"Daryl..." Carol said. Daryl held his hand up to stop her from telling him that he might be pushing Sophia too hard to speak right now.

"It's OK," Daryl said. "Let's just see. Just—can you tell me that, Sophia? What is that?"

Sophia looked at it. She looked at Carol and then at Daryl. Then she looked back at the doll.

"Doll," Sophia offered.

Carol smiled and Daryl nodded his head at her.

"That's right," Daryl said. "Doll. Baby doll."

"She had a doll for a little while," Carol said. "While we were out there. She had several dolls. I'd get them for her whenever I could. We always ended up having to leave them behind, though. It was difficult to travel with too much stuff and—things always seemed to happen to them."

Sophia hugged the doll to her.

"You gonna keep that one," Daryl offered. "If you fond of it. All of 'em you got. But—that's a doll but it's s'posed to be like a baby. You know what a baby is?"

Sophia nodded her head. Somewhere she'd heard about babies or seen them. Daryl wasn't going to press her to give him the details, though, of her knowledge. They were taking things slow. Daryl licked his lips.

"You know—where they come from?" Daryl asked. "How they get borned into the world?"

Sophia shook her head and Daryl glanced at Carol. This was her show. He wasn't about to decide how much education her daughter got in one day about babies and how they got there.

Carol shifted around, changing her position. She took her time, starting to speak and stopping several times, before she seemed to settle in on what she wanted to say. She looked at Daryl almost apologetically before she began, so Daryl assumed that she might think he'd find what she had to say either embarrassing or boring.

"Sophia—when two grown up people love each other like...well, a certain way, then sometimes they have a baby together. When they do, that baby will..."

Carol broke off and looked at Daryl like he might protest to what she was saying. He didn't protest at all. What she was saying might greatly oversimplify the whole process, but until they could really be sure of how Sophia was functioning, there was no need to get too complicated with things. She didn't need all the details. All she really needed was enough knowledge to help her understand that Carol was carrying her brother and sister. Daryl nodded at Carol to press her to continue. Carol sighed before she spoke again.

"If they're having a baby together," Carol said, "then they'll make the baby together and—and it'll grow in the woman's tummy. It'll grow there until it's big enough to be born. Then it comes out to meet the world."

"Then it's a baby that looks like your doll," Daryl said. "Once it's fully growed an' all."

"Do you understand, sweetheart?" Carol asked. "That's—it's how babies are born. You were a baby, once, in my tummy. You grew there until you were big enough to be born, and then you were here with me. And you grew up from that into—into the beautiful girl that you are today."

Sophia smiled to herself and then she shared the smiled with Carol. She glanced at Daryl and he nodded at her.

"You grew up good," Daryl said. "Look like your Mama. That's a good thing."

Carol laughed quietly. Then she got Sophia's attention again.

"Sophia—Daryl and I love each other," Carol said.

Daryl swallowed. It didn't matter how many times she said it, and she'd said it quite a few times, every time that he heard Carol say that she loved him with her own mouth it made his throat tighten. He still couldn't believe that he was that lucky. He couldn't believe that something so good had come out of the mountains of shit that he sometimes felt like he'd been shoveling through his whole life.

Sophia glanced at Daryl when her mother suggested that they loved each other and Daryl nodded his head.

"We do," he said, in case Sophia needed the extra assurance.

"And we decided to have a baby," Carol said. "Out of our love. But—we got very, very lucky. We got so lucky that our love—it didn't make one baby. It made two babies." Carol reached over and took Sophia's hand. Sophia let her have it willingly, but she watched her mother's movements carefully as Carol moved her daughter's hand to rest on her belly. "Right in here. We have two babies. And now? We're just waiting on them to grow. We're waiting for them to—come and join us."

Sophia looked at Daryl and he nodded his head again.

"You don't believe us," Daryl said, "you can go look in that other room over there. The one with the closed door? Across the hall? Go look in it. You'll see we got cribs an' baby things. All the stuff we gonna need to bring 'em on home with us. They gonna be your brother an' sister. You got one of each. One boy and one girl. They gonna be about the size of your doll there an' you can play with them too—gentle like."

Sophia glanced at Carol only have a second before she got off the bed. She rushed out of the bedroom, doll in hand, and Daryl could only assume that she was going to investigate the nursery. He looked at Carol. She looked worried and Daryl smiled at her. He reached his hand over and brushed her cheek before he gently patted her belly.

"Don't look so scared," Daryl said. "What's she gonna do?"

"What if she doesn't react well?" Carol asked.

"She's gonna react fine," Daryl said. "Just goin' to check things out. It's a lot to take in."

"Do you think it's too much?" Carol asked. "I don't want to throw too much at her."

"Throwin' love an' family at someone ain't throwin' too much at 'em," Daryl said. "There's worse stuff she could get thrown at her."

"I think you might have grossly overestimated the size of our babies," Carol said. "If you think that they're both going to be the size of that doll."

Daryl laughed to himself.

"Not that big?" He asked.

"Not even close," Carol said. "At least—I hope not."

"Eventually, though," Daryl said.

"When they're about—six or eight months old," Carol said. "What do you think she's doing, Daryl? Do you think she's OK? I should check on her..."

Carol started to get out of the bed and Daryl reached a hand out and stopped her. He shook his head at her.

"You stay here a minute. I'll just take a peek. Make sure she's OK. Won't interrupt whatever she's doin' unless she don't look OK. We'll give her a little space. Some time to think. Let her wander a bit in the house. Give her whatever freedom she might need. She'll come to us when she's ready to talk about it—or ready to move on, whichever it might be. In the meantime, after I check on her, there's—uh—there's somethin' else I wanna talk to you about, OK? Somethin' I just wanna talk to you about. In private just for a minute. I'd appreciate if you'd—if you'd wait on me? Lemme talk to you? I called in and talked to Melodye this morning and..."

"You talked to Melodye?" Carol asked, cutting him off.

Daryl could practically hear Carol's pulse kick up when her expression changed. He shook his head at her and leaned forward, kissing her on the corner of the mouth when she didn't immediately move to respond to him.

"Sophia really does look like you, you know that? Especially when you're both worryin' over something. Stop worryin'," Daryl said. "Nothin' bad at all, I promise. Lemme just go check on Sophia. I'll be right back and I'll tell you everything. In the meantime? Don't worry. It ain't bad, and I don't lie. Not to you."


End file.
